


Grants

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Intoxication, M/M, Oral Sex, Role Reversal, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil throws Lindir a party, but all the prince can want is a certain Greenwood servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For once, I think I might continue this. I don’t know yet, this was a weird idea and I just started writing before properly thinking it out...? OTL
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lindir appreciates the gesture, of course, even though he’s quite aware of the underlying motivation. King Thranduil arrives with open arms, a plethora of guests, servants, chefs, and, naturally, an abundance of wine. He says the party is his gift, but Lindir knows that it’s laced with subtle competition and Thranduil finding the sort of parties that Lindir throws dreadfully dull.

Thranduil’s are a grand affair. He has banners raised and lanterns lit and musicians everywhere, several long tables and a multitude of milling attendants, wine flowing from the first course. Thranduil serves several courses. The first consists of light snacks and theatrical entertainment, the second salads and soups, and then a heartier round wherein the dancing begins, and Lindir sinks all the deeper into his chair. He spends most, if not all, of the party seated at the head table. In the beginning, King Thranduil and Prince Legolas sit on either side of him, but beyond that, they seem to trade off, one or the other always invested in the festivities. Lindir smiles politely at whoever approaches him and wishes he could slink away. Many of his people, at least, obviously enjoy the party, and it pleases him to see that. But Imladris is _not_ run the way the Woodland Realm is, and by the time the stars are out, the sun replaced with them and more candles and coloured lanterns, Lindir is exhausted. Half of that tiredness is genuinely from the lateness and bountiful food, but the rest is simply from dealing with his royal guests.

When Thranduil next returns to the head table, Lindir means to excuse himself. But Thranduil seems to have run into a foul mood—he’s just finished shooing away a red-haired guard from dancing with Legolas. So Lindir sits and hopes to wait it out, while a servant drifts by their table again, pausing to refill Thranduil’s glass—Lindir’s remains untouched.

“Where has Galion gotten off to?” Thranduil asks, a bit of a snap to his voice, and that’s what first draws Lindir’s attention. He glances at the commotion, then away, then quickly back again, drawn like a beacon to the elf that serves them. It’s one that Lindir hasn’t seen before, an older man, perhaps around Thranduil’s age, with dark brown hair drawn back and one thin braid hanging before each pointed ear, a silver circlet around his head and crimson robes clinging to his strong frame. His face holds a certain weariness but a distinct edge of wisdom, and his dark eyes fill Lindir with life. He inadvertently sits up straight, staring without meaning to. 

The servant replies casually, “He has passed out in the kitchens.” Unlike most of Thranduil’s servants, this one shows no such inclinations—he stands tall and still, perfect posture, untouched by drink. He doesn’t bend in a near-bow the way most do in Thranduil’s sheer presence, nor does he smile or blush in his king’s presence—most of Thranduil’s staff, Lindir’s found, are quite enthralled with him despite his... odder... tendencies. Clearly, this one is an exception. 

Confirming Lindir’s suspicions, Thranduil grumbles, first over this missing Galion and then, “And I suppose that in his place you are obscenely sober.” The servant doesn’t answer, merely watches Thranduil evenly, until Thranduil waves a dismissive hand. Then the servant leaves. He’s barely turned his back before Thranduil’s lifting his goblet again. Lindir’s eyes follow his new discovery. The servant refreshes a few more glasses, then takes up a tight stance at the edge of the balcony, where he seems to take up polite conversation with those who approach him, but he doesn’t take anyone to dance.

Lindir’s sure plenty must ask him. He’s strikingly handsome. Lindir can’t pull himself away. Beside him, Thranduil snorts, “I knew you were into older men, but surely you could do better than that old, stuffy thing.”

Lindir tenses instantly, cheeks flushing, and his first instinct is to blurt, “N-no, I was simply...” But he trails off, having no good excuse. It’s plain that he hasn’t fooled his guest, who smirks broadly, only to look back amongst the crowd, leaving Lindir in an unexpected peace.

Only a few minutes pass before Thranduil elbows Lindir lightly in the arm. Lindir gasps and rubs the sore spot, while Thranduil asks, “I had not asked—what did Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel send for your name day?”

“A new harp and some scrolls...” Lindir mumbles, dropping his hand again and trying to subtly shift father away in his chair. He likes Thranduil well enough, but only sober. He quite enjoyed the gifts from Lórien and sent a very thankful letter in response, but he isn’t surprised that Thranduil snorts and waves his hand.

“How boring—and they could not even be bothered to attend the festivities of the prince of Imladris! No matter, _I_ intend to do right by you, dear Lindir. Though any would agree this party is gift enough, I will grant you a new gift—a personal attendant.”

Lindir’s mouth falls open. He splutters, “No, I... I could not possibly accept such a thing...”

“Nonsense. You are clearly infatuated with my son’s attendant, and to be frank, he had run his course in our home—he is separated and his daughter ran off with a mortal, a terrible example to set, and his sons are entirely too interested in Legolas. This, I understand, cannot be helped with one so undeniably beautiful as my heir, but you understand I cannot have mere half-Elven servants flirting with him. But I am sure you will not find the family so troublesome; your line has never had the admirers of mine.”

Lindir simply blinks at so much information at once. He gets the distinct impression he’s been insulted but knows better than to pursue it. He tries again, “I do not wish to disrupt a home—”

Thranduil waves him quiet again and goes right on. “I assure you, Elrond would leap at the job offer—he is entirely too stuffy for the Woodland realm. We have never agreed on policies, and frankly I would have no attendant to my son that does not hold absolute faith and adoration for their king. ...But again, I am sure you will have no such difficulties; Imladris has always been more of a roadside lodge than a valiant realm, and you do not have the fire with which I defend my people.”

Lindir’s now positive he’s been insulted. But he’s also gathered the servant’s name—Elrond—and that, for whatever reason, feels as though it’s worth more to him. He still has no desire to relocate anyone on Thranduil’s intoxicated word, but he can see there’s no hope arguing the point, so quietly mumbles, “If he agrees, then... thank you.” As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he feels inordinately guilty. He’s all too aware that he _should_ fight Thranduil more on the point, but finds himself too interested to do so. He knows nothing of Elrond, other than he seems the one person here as reserved as Lindir, but if Elrond returns to the Woodland Realm with Thranduil’s delegation in the morning, Lindir will never know more.

Thranduil nods, apparently satisfied, but then, to Lindir’s horror, waves Elrond over again, who seems to have kept one eye out for it. Elrond comes to the front of the table, close enough again to hear over the music. While Lindir tries very hard not to ogle Elrond’s attractive face, Thranduil drawls, “How would you like a change in duties?” Elrond quirks an eyebrow but says nothing and gives no indication either way. Clearly, he’s sturdy enough to weather Thranduil’s storm. Any other servant would eagerly agree to Thranduil’s whim. In that wake, Thranduil continues, “It is the prince’s name day, and he is in need of a personal attendant. As Legolas has clearly outgrown you, I have selflessly decided to allow you to consider the job.”

Lindir’s lips tighten at the wording, but he doesn’t correct it. Elrond stares at Thranduil a moment more, as though waiting for a twist, then glances at Lindir with a somewhat softer look and asks, “Is this offer true?” It shows bravery, to question a king to his face. 

Before Thranduil can catch on to that, Lindir nods. Then he mumbles, “Yes, thank you,” and feels his cheeks burning. He can only hope the dim light hides his surely horrendous blush. He half expects to discover this is all some bizarre, cruel joke—indeed, he doesn’t have the admirers of Thranduil and Legolas, and he’s never known an elf to prefer his quiet home to Thranduil’s majestic realm.

But Elrond says simply, “Then I graciously accept.”

Lindir’s hands fall to his lap, specifically so he can squeeze them under the table. He’s delighted but tries not to show it. He doesn’t know what to say.

Thranduil says for him, “You may continue serving me for the night, starting by refilling the prince’s cup.” Elrond walks to the edge of the table to fetch the pitcher and, perhaps a tad begrudgingly, pours more wine into Lindir’s cup, so that it reaches the edge—it was nearly full before. 

Lindir can only hope it won’t spill on his first sip, which he takes as soon as Elrond’s back is turned. He feels thoroughly embarrassed and needs the liquid courage. Once he starts, it becomes difficult to stop, because Thranduil is constantly encouraging him, and watching Elrond move about the party sets his skin on fire. He needs to drown that wild, inappropriate and foolish desire _out_. But the more he sees of Elrond, the more he likes. Elrond seems unpresumptuous, yet almost regal in his calm demeanor, and yet on the rare occasion when he smiles, it looks so very _kind_ , and Lindir wishes he’d been the one brave enough to conjure conversation and bring that look out on Elrond’s lovely face. Lindir’s heard of this bond, something sacred and seemingly exclusive to their race—instant attraction, understanding. It’s rare, but strong. He thinks that’s what he has. He’s entranced.

And he covers that up by making the world hazier, until it’s the middle of the night and the music is no quieter, Thranduil no less amused, and the food yet unfinished. Lindir’s head pounds, and still he takes it for as long as he can, until he forces himself to stand from his chair and give a messy bow to his makeshift host. “This has been a lovely evening,” he mutters, hoping desperately that he isn’t slurring his words, “but I am afraid I must... must retire...”

To his immense relief, Thranduil simply laughs. “Of course. You are young still, and clearly have not learned to hold your liquor. We cannot all be as my son in youth.” Lindir glances over to see Legolas at another table, happily accepting what may as well be his hundredth drink, and yet he looks perfectly fine, except, perhaps, a slight shaking in his fingers. Or it could be Lindir’s vision swaying. He nods and turns to move from the table, nearly tripping over his chair in the process and blushing all the harder. He feels as though he’s already made a fool of himself.

As soon as he’s around the head table, a warm body is at his side. He almost stumbles again, but the figure catches him, and Lindir looks up to find the elf of his dreams looking back at him, helping him stand tall again. Elrond is taller. Elrond drapes one hand gently behind Lindir’s back and guides him towards the door of the balcony, saying privately, “Come, my lord.”

Lindir wants to bury his blushing face in Elrond’s shoulder. Instead, he somehow retains the will to walk. Elrond guides him, out into the corridor and to the end, up the stairs and across a long hall. Elrond guides him all the way to his quarters, and as they step inside, Lindir thinks to ask, “How did you know the way?”

“You will find I am very knowledgeable,” Elrond answers simply.

Before Lindir can stop himself, he mutters, “And responsible. You do not seem to have imbibed...”

“I prefer to keep a clear head.”

“So do I,” Lindir agrees, though he realizes he has no way to prove it’s true and this is a horrible way to first meet. He hurries to add, “But King Thranduil...” But nothing. Even like this, he can’t bring himself to insult a fellow lord—especially Elrond’s former one—aloud. So he simply lets himself be brought to the bed and ushered to sit.

Elrond leaves only to close the wide doors, then returns. The candles aren’t yet lit in Lindir’s room, but there’s no need to—the starlight seeps in through the tall windows, and he doesn’t plan to be up a moment more than he needs to. Or didn’t. Now he wants to delay sleep, if only to keep Elrond in his presence longer.

Elrond is already very helpful. He carefully lifts the crown from Lindir’s head and sets it aside on a desk, then comes behind him to help remove his outer robes. Lindir almost wants Elrond to do the rest—undress him completely and tuck him in—but couldn’t stomach the embarrassment. As Elrond folds and places Lindir’s cloak aside, Lindir blurts, “I... I have a dreadful headache.”

“You would do, drinking so much.” The tone is almost admonishing. Lindir didn’t expect that from a servant but is glad of it—he’s never liked being on the upper end of a power imbalance. He’s already smaller, younger. And clearly in need of a good scolding. He lowers his head, knowing he’s wrong. 

Elrond sweeps closer to him. The bed dips with added weight, and Elrond sidles up to him but takes his shoulders to gently turn—Lindir allows it, so that Elrond is set behind him. Then Elrond’s finger tips brush over Lindir’s temples, soft and warm, and press in. Lindir lets out a flicker of breath, and Elrond proceeds to massage his scalp with expert skill. The effect is almost immediate and wondrous, markedly reducing the dull throbbing that lingered before. Beyond that, it feels _good_ —Lindir’s always _loved_ having people play with his hair. The only trouble is that he loves it a little _too_ much, and soon, having Elrond touch him so has him breathing hard and flushed all over, body _warm_ , he glances shyly over his shoulder and thinks, again, how devastatingly _gorgeous_ Elrond is.

When Elrond finally stops, the headache has dissolved completely. All that’s left is Lindir’s own personal turmoil and the dizziness of wine. He turns to face Elrond properly again and murmurs, “That is... much better. Thank you.”

Elrond offers him a small, understated smile that makes Lindir’s heart beat faster. “I am glad. I confess to have some interest in the healing arts.” Lindir should’ve guessed as much. He should be silent. The only noise in the room is the muffled, far off music of the festivities—Lindir has the sudden urge to join in, to grab his harp and _sing_ , full of new inspiration.

He mumbles, “You are _so_ handsome,” and then instantly shuts his mouth and regrets it. He expects Elrond to frown or shift uncomfortably away.

But Elrond’s smile merely twitches at the ends, and he says sincerely, “Thank you. You are very beautiful yourself, my lord.”

Now Lindir’s on _fire_. He can hardly think straight. No one thinks _him_ beautiful. Those words are for elves like Thranduil and Legolas and... and Elrond. But Elrond sits patiently, looking kind and gentle and like he’s never told a lie in his life. Lindir chokes out, “Do you... ah... are you... have...” but he doesn’t know how to say it. He wants to ask if Elrond, in his personal attendant duties, offers _sexual_ services—Lindir knows all of Thranduil’s do, though likely not Legolas’ as Elrond was, and of course it’s a terrible thing to ask—he doesn’t want to impose or imply in any way that he requires it, but he’s too much of a mess to explain any of that right now and instead shifts closer, tilting up, and brushes his lips ever-so-lightly over Elrond’s before murmuring, “Sorry, s-sorry, I am so very sorry...” He shakes his head and feels dizzy again, almost swaying. He wants a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him. 

A hand cups his cheek, and Lindir’s eyes fall closed, his body shivering in anticipation. Elrond presses a soft, chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead, then settles back to say, “If you mean will I do such acts with you, I am more than willing. ...But not like this, and this is not a good way to start nor discuss it. I find you very, very attractive, my young lord, but you _are_ young, much more so than I, and you are intoxicated, while I am not. I have no wish to take advantage of you.”

“It would not be—” Lindir hurries to say, but Elrond shakes his head, and Lindir quiets.

“Yes, it would. You should rest and recover, and if you still desire me in the morning when your head is clear, we may discuss our new relationship.” Lindir’s heart flutters, before he realizes Elrond means in a professional capacity. Or perhaps more. He doesn’t know—he’s confused and dizzy, and he can see in Elrond’s eyes that Elrond doesn’t expect this to continue in the morning, but he benevolently doesn’t list all the reasons—Lindir is younger, and he’s a prince, and Elrond is a new servant whom Lindir so desperately _wants_. “Until then, sleep, my lord.”

Lindir nods, as though he’s the servant and Elrond his master. He almost wishes it were so, then it might be easier—Elrond seems like he would make a grand lord, thoughtful and respectful, and perhaps Lindir could be a foolish but eager attendant for all his needs.

Elrond nudges Lindir up, then rolls back the blankets, and helps Lindir climb into bed. Before Elrond can leave, Lindir murmurs, “I want to be good to you.”

He’s pleased when Elrond answers, “I can tell, and I have heard only good things of the quiet, minstrel prince of Imladris.” Lindir smiles. Elrond comes closer again and leans down, placing another kiss to Lindir’s forehead, and then he’s sweeping away, Lindir watching him go with a steady thrum of longing. 

Yet when Lindir succumbs to sleep, he dreams only peacefully.


	2. Contract

He’s roused by the knock of the door, and over a languid yawn, he calls, “Come in.”

He remembers too late who would now have cause to enter his chambers so early. Lindir shuffles up in bed to sit against the pillows, only to watch the doors draw open and his new attendant slip inside, arms laden with a tray of tea and sandwiches. The events of last night, though a little hazy in some parts, come rolling back into Lindir, but the butterflies seem to swell in his chest anew, equally as vivid as he remembers. Elrond comes to place the tray on Lindir’s bedside table, then straightens to ask, “Did you sleep well, my prince?”

Lindir slept inordinately well despite how late he was up. By all accounts, he should have a pounding headache, but he feels well rested and only a little dizzy, head blissfully calm. The only trouble is the turmoil of his own thoughts, all washed over with a thin sheen of happiness: he didn’t imagine this wondrous creature. They still have much to talk about, but Lindir only manages to nod his head, then clears his throat and asks, “And you?” He immediately feels foolish; Elrond, to his knowledge, didn’t drink at all.

But Elrond offers a small smile and answers, “I had a very pleasant night, my lord. I believe I will enjoy my stay here.” Lindir fervently hopes so, because he wants Elrond to stay as long as possible. When Lindir doesn’t say any more, Elrond continues, “And how is your head? I can administer another massage, if you would so like.”

Lindir’s head’s fine, but he still eagerly answers, “That would be lovely, thank you.” Perhaps it isn’t wise, given the reaction he’s sure to have, but he finds he can’t refuse the offer of Elrond’s hands on him. Elrond dips his head, then waits, until Lindir thinks to move, blushing hotly. He murmurs his apologies and crawls forward in bed, suddenly hyper-aware that he’s still in last night’s clothes. He perches on the middle of the mattress on folded knees anyway, looking away lest he catch admonishment in Elrond’s eyes.

The bed dips, and Lindir can feel Elrond settling behind him. Lindir hurriedly tosses the rest of his hair over his shoulders, wishing he’d thought to brush it before Elrond could see him. He feels like a mess. Elrond mentions none of this and spreads his fingertips along the sides of Lindir’s skull, setting swiftly into an easy pace, slow and soothing but firm and poignant. His touch is exactly the right amount of pressure. His fingers slide loosely through Lindir’s hair in different parts, reaching the sensitive skin beneath, careful never to tug, though Lindir can’t help but fantasize of Elrond pulling his hair almost violently. Lindir has to hold himself back from trembling, from moaning. The massage feels _very_ good, even more so than he remembers it, and he wishes he could do nothing but sit here all day, receiving such decadent treatment. 

On the other hand, he would never be able to weather it. The more Elrond touches him, the more Lindir struggles to restrain himself. He’s sure this isn’t the intended effect—Elrond does nothing untoward—but Lindir already keens too much for this touch. At one point, Elrond’s index fingers brush tantalizingly over the backs of Lindir’s ears, and his breath hitches, head tilting back, whole body arching—he bites his lip and whimpers horribly in the attempt to not mewl. 

Elrond’s hands still pause, and he asks, “Have I hurt you, my lord?”

“No,” Lindir mutters, shaking his head and shamefully leaning back, so that his ears brush over Elrond’s hands again. Then the guilt overwhelms him, and before Elrond can start again, Lindir forces himself to add, “But, I... we... we should speak of...” he can’t even say it. He doesn’t know how. 

He doesn’t have to. Elrond’s hands fall away, and he crawls right around to sit before Lindir, their knees almost touching. Elrond’s in new robes, pearly white this time, tight-fitted, a silver circlet glistening atop his forehead in the morning light. He asks first, “Do you remember what we discussed?”

Lindir remembers that they hardly discussed anything, but that he wanted to, and Elrond said _later_. Now it’s later, and Lindir mumbles, “Yes, and I... I am sorry, but I believe I feel the same about... about you.”

Elrond lifts an eyebrow and pauses before admitting, “I confess, I did not think you would still hold interest in me once the veil of drink was gone.”

Lindir, bright red across his cheeks, blurts, “Even before the drink, I felt you were unequivocally handsome, and even more so now, I—” but he cuts himself off, slamming his mouth shut. Elrond smiles indulgently. Lindir is both warmed by it and urged to insist how true it is. 

He has a vague recollection of Elrond offering certain things, but he can’t be sure it wasn’t skewed with his own desire. Unfortunately, Elrond doesn’t bring that up again, but instead moves to climb off the bed. Lindir turns to watch him pace over to the night table, where Elrond lifts the waiting kettle to pour more hot water into the cup. Then he passes it across the bed and says, “You should wait properly before we discuss such things, my prince. You are young and in a patient land—you can afford time to ponder your own wants before you accept one as withered and in such a position as myself.”

Lindir takes the cup but wholly disagrees. He doesn’t need time to ponder, and he knows what he wants, and Elrond’s age and position mean nothing to him, only Elrond’s consent and own interests. Nonetheless, he takes a sip from his cup, while Elrond rewards him for it with another thin smile. 

Another knock on the door interrupts them. Lindir’s startled at first, then calls, “Yes?”

“You are up then? May I enter?” a muffled voice calls through the door. Before Lindir’s answered, Elrond has bowed his head and turned to leave.

Lindir irrationally wants to hold him but can think of no reason to do so, and so repeats, “Yes.”

The door opens, Glorfindel walking in just as Elrond ducks out with a polite bow. Glorfindel opens his mouth but pauses at that, turning instead to watch Elrond go. He wears, like Lindir, the same ceremonial robes as last night—Lindir remembers commenting on the gold brocade across the shoulders. Glorfindel’s waved yellow hair cascades down his back in a better-tamed mess than Lindir’s, and once he’s closed the door, he wanders forward to say, “Ah, that is right. I had forgotten you now have a personal attendant to awaken you.” With a quirk to his lips, Glorfindel adds, “Not that you need one, stickler that you are. With the exception, of course, of late drinking parties.”

When Glorfindel reaches the bed, he plops right down on the edge. Before Lindir can offer any greeting—or a sandwich—Glorfindel leans in to slyly ask, “He is from the Woodland Realm, is he? Is he the servant you could not take your eyes off last night?” Lindir doesn’t answer, just turns steadily redder and hopes there isn’t a rumour circulating to that effect. “You did retire early last night, but if it was for a bit of play with a new servant, I fully understand—you have had entirely too little fun for your years, my lord.”

Lindir groans, wondering which of the many wrongs to correct, and settles on, “You call that _early_?” He’d assumed most of his own people retired even earlier, not held by political courtesy. He should’ve known better.

Glorfindel simply laughs, “My dear Lindir, I have yet to sleep! With so many charming friends here for such a short time, how could I waste the hours away?”

A moment ago, Elrond was suggesting they have plenty of time for such relaxation. But Lindir sees no need to rain on Glorfindel’s proverbial parade, and instead asks, “Has King Thranduil mentioned to anyone how long his delegation will stay? I am afraid that if we discussed details last night, I have quite forgotten them.”

“I believe he is leaving after lunch,” Glorfindel notes, “which, as you and most of Imladris seem to have slept through breakfast, is in an hour.”

“So soon?” Lindir squeaks, nearly spitting out the tea he’d just swallowed. He usually has far more than that to prepare, and with Thranduil, much mental preparation is often necessary.

Glorfindel shrugs his broad shoulders and casually replies, “The wine’s gone—what use is there in staying?”

Lindir rolls his eyes. Then he stretches to set his cup back on the tray and climb out of bed, only for Glorfindel to follow, headed for the door. With a half-bow, Glorfindel tells him, “Good luck with your new servant.” Lindir would scowl at the teasing look in his friend’s eyes, if not for the nervousness already twisting his face.

He’s eaten two of the four slices of sandwich on his tray when Elrond returns, carrying a folded set of robes. It wouldn’t be proper to wear the same ceremonial set out that he did last night, and worse still, Thranduil would likely tease him for it. Lindir only wishes he’d had a chance to bathe in between. Better yet, to have Elrond bathe him. It might not become part of Elrond’s duties, but Lindir’s had servants wash him before, and the thought of Elrond running soap and warm water across his bare skin makes him shiver. He tries to push the fantasy aside while he takes the new robes. Elrond turns his back while Lindir changes himself, as he’s wearing nothing underneath. He’s not sure how he feels about Elrond looking away. Elrond never sneaks any looks that Lindir might if their positions were reversed and he wasn’t told otherwise. When he’s finished, he asks, “Can you help me?” The back of this outfit is corseted, and Elrond steps forward to take hold of the delicate thread.

Elrond keeps the corset fairly loose, though Lindir murmurs over his shoulder, “You may tie it tighter...” He wants it form-fitted, figure flattering, in the hopes of piquing Elrond’s interest, though the corset is hardly the sort of curve-inducing, full-length structure attached to many mortal gowns. Still, Elrond draws it tighter on Lindir’s command, while Lindir holds his hair over one shoulder and out of the way.

When the bow is tied, Lindir tries to think of more to say, to ask, to keep Elrond in his presence. Elrond is the one to suggest, “May I brush your hair, my lord?”

Lindir means to say ‘of course,’ but instead answers, “I would like that.” The rare times he’s had other servants brush his hair, they did so at his desk, but Lindir climbs onto his bed before Elrond can suggest otherwise. It’s becoming a precedent with them, and Lindir would like to keep it that way. Elrond makes his way to the desk where Lindir’s brush sits, then returns to settle behind Lindir. 

First, Elrond gathers all of Lindir’s long hair from his shoulders, pulling it smooth across his back, long fingers weaving through. Then the brush comes, only at the end, Elrond’s hands tight among it—there’s no pull. Elrond gives slow, deliberate strokes, working steadily higher, occasionally slipping his fingers through the curtain ahead of the brush. Whenever Elrond’s fingertips reach the nape of Lindir’s neck, his breath catches. 

After a few minutes of enjoyable silence, Lindir says, “You are very good at this.”

“Both of my sons have similar hair to yours,” Elrond notes, which makes Lindir’s stomach clench unpleasantly—he doesn’t want to be equated with Elrond’s children. “And my daughter was quite fussy about having her hair tugged, and yet she was rather rambunctious and thus induced many tangles.”

Trying to find distinction, Lindir asks, “Do you still brush their hair?”

“No. Not for many years.” That, at least, is something. Another moment, and Elrond adds, “A pity; I find the action very... relaxing.”

Lindir can’t help his grin. He’s careful not to look over his shoulder, so that Elrond won’t know how childishly pleased the admission makes him. He says, “I enjoy this. You are welcome to brush mine any time you should like.” Then Lindir betrays himself, glancing back only quickly, to find a soft smile on Elrond’s lips. His eyes are lowered, watching the silken locks he brushes clean. 

He answers, “In that case, I believe we may spend many pleasant mornings together, my lord.”

Lindir can only hope so. He just wishes he had more hair. His is long, nearly reaching his waist, but it won’t keep Elrond with him forever. He thinks to ask for other things—perhaps Elrond can braid it, one long one in the back or one over each ear, or any configuration, he doesn’t care—but that might be dangerous. It would mean more _touching_ , and slight pulling, and he knows that each tug would give him a flurry of inappropriate visions. He wonders if there’s any way he can justify asking to brush a servant’s hair. Elrond’s is just as long, just as creamy and thick, and Lindir would love to weave his fingers into it, particularly in bed, when nothing else covered Elrond’s supple form—

The brush retreats, and Elrond announces, “We had best leave now, my lord, if we mean to make lunch before King Thranduil leaves.”

“Yes.” Lindir’s breath is too husky. But he nods and crawls from the bed. He wonders absently if he should make a show of tossing his hair about at dinner, or even slipping away from sight and rolling down a hill, anything to tangle it so, in order to have Elrond spend the night pulling it all free.

They leave for the meal together, but Elrond diverts to the kitchens when they pass the right corridor, and Lindir carries on to meet Thranduil on the same balcony as last night.

Glorfindel was wrong. Some wine remains, and Thranduil indulges again, drawing Lindir to his side. Despite how wild his night was, he doesn’t seem in the least put out, nor does prince Legolas, who spends much of the meal that follows idly chatting with Lindir. The real questions Lindir wants to ask—what was Elrond like? Were you fond of him? Did you get to _touch him_?—never leave Lindir’s lips. He doesn’t want to risk reminding Thranduil and drawing embarrassing discussions. They speak of other things, and Thranduil draws things on, leaving them seated so long that eventually the sun is setting, and Thranduil is sending Lindir’s servants to fetch another course, which effectively becomes dinner.

Lindir allows this, as usual. His title is mostly honourary, his people mostly self-sufficient, and they seem not to mind Thranduil drawing out another celebration. The servants in Imladris work much as any in Elven realms, though Lindir’s heard of other races operating quite differently: every elf has their duties, either suggested or requested, and they each contribute what they can, in turn all taken care of within the small realm’s borders and mutually benefiting from one another’s skills. Lindir, unlike most, has the benefit of high birth and has inherited larger quarters and fewer duties expected of him. He makes political decisions albeit rarely—the “tough decisions”, he’s heard others say—and is ultimately in charge of the smooth running of his home. While a primary goal of Imladris is to offer a safe haven to friends, often foreign travelers, Thranduil is a strange presence to host, for he rarely consults with Lindir and rather orchestrates his own events. Yet he offers welcome entertainment to many of Lindir’s people, who spend much time speaking of their Woodland cousins. Thus, when Thranduil asks for more wine, more food, more music, and Lindir’s servants provide it, Lindir offers no disruption and tries to see the silver lining of their joy.

He’s still tired and thoroughly relieved when Thranduil finally rises, conducts one last toast, and excuses his party. Lindir rises with him and follows all the way to the proverbial doorstep, where Greenwood servants have already readied the main delegation’s horses. Thranduil’s majestic elk awaits its master on the circular dais at the edge of Imladris. Once Thranduil’s made his official goodbyes, he’s quick to mount his ride, but others linger, including the prince. Lindir, waiting at the head of his own party out of respect, watches Legolas bid farewell to two tall, dark-haired elves with grey eyes. He means to ask Glorfindel who they are—he doesn’t know them—but when he turns, he finds Glorfindel busy conferring with Erestor. On his other side, slightly behind him, Elrond’s calm voice fills in, “My twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir.”

Lindir starts, head darting to look—he hadn’t noticed Elrond joining him. But then, he’s been somewhat out of it since lunch became dinner. Though embarrassed to be caught staring so obviously, Lindir glances back at the twins who appear, now that he knows, very similar to their father. They’re both quite good looking, though not as much as Elrond, in Lindir’s opinion. They offer Legolas fond smiles and bow their heads when he finally leaves. Lindir can’t help but wonder if they’ll miss serving under such a renowned prince. 

He waits to ask until after Thranduil’s party has ridden off, and his own people, for the most part, have wandered away. Glorfindel claps his shoulder and laughs, “You are finally free,” before turning back to the buildings. Erestor follows, also giving Lindir a knowing nod. Lindir only hopes he wasn’t so obvious to his guests. 

He doesn’t move until only Elrond’s left, seemingly waiting at his side, the two of them alone on the dim platform, under the open light of the stars. Elladan and Elrohir are last to leave before them, their backs retreating down a side stair rather than the main case that Lindir drifts to. On the first step, Lindir asks, “Have you been given proper quarters yet?”

“Yes, my lord. Not far from your own, actually,” Elrond answers, posture perfect as he ascends the stairs with an innate grace Lindir can only hope to someday achieve. “If you should have need of anything, I will be able to reach you in a very timely fashion.”

Lindir tries hard not to react. He hopes he’ll be able to resist taking advantage. He thinks to ask _how close_ but doesn’t want to impose. So he deliberately changes the subject. “And your sons—Elladan and Elrohir, you said? How are they faring?”

“Well, thank you. They have also been settled and look forward to trying out for the guard—they have been interested in exploring these lands for some time.” As they turn into an undercover corridor with a torch lit at either end, Elrond draws his arms behind his back, hands clasping there, and idly comments, “I fear there is little for me to do; Imladris seems to be run very well.”

Lindir answers, “Thank you,” and then, just before they reach the door at the end, he dares to put his hand on Elrond’s elbow before quickly drawing it away. He wants to wrap his arm around Elrond’s but can’t quite summon the nerve. He still asks, “...Would you like to go for a stroll?” It’s a strange request, he knows, but Elrond only dips his head obligingly and turns away from the door, back through the pillars and out into the starlight gardens, Lindir at his side. 

They still need to speak of the parameters of their relationship, even if only in a professional capacity. Lindir doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject, nor does he get the chance. Just as they turn a corner and come across a fountain, Erestor appears from the other side, hurrying over to tell Lindir, “We have a disruption in the kitchen schedule, my lord—it seems certain supplies were miss-served and have left us in a rears. Are you available to look over it?”

Lindir’s almost never been unavailable to oversee the running of his home. He’s very, very tempted to deny availability now. The only thing that halts him guiltily wriggling away from his duties is that he doesn’t want to appear neglectful in front of Elrond, the very person he wants desperately to stay with, so he begrudgingly sighs and makes to follow Erestor. Elrond nods his leave and retreats the way they came. Lindir tries not to watch him go, but there’s a knowing grin on Erestor’s face that says Lindir isn’t so subtle as he wishes.

The trouble turns out to be nothing he’s really _needed_ for—the chefs already have substitutions lined up and re-arrangements; it simply falls on Lindir to approval their plans. Under normal circumstances, he’d meticulously go through them before he agreed—he generally considers himself a well-organized person. But tonight he can’t keep his mind off it, and he signs off on the plans before he’s even finished reading the proposal. He excuses himself for the night, having now wasted a second day doing nothing of value besides the entertainment of guests. 

He passes more than one musician on the way to his quarters, many still buzzing from the activities. In the privacy of his own rooms, he retrieves his own harp—the newest one from the lord and lady of Lórien, a small, golden hand-held instrument of true beauty. Its strings glisten in the light of the candles he sets, nearly glowing on their own. The base is carved with an elaborate arrangement of leaves in the Lórien style. Lindir spends a few minutes idly plucking the strings, testing their sound, and then experiments with a rudimentary melody.

Before long, he’s singing to it, quiet but lilting and passionate, his art easing his worries. The fretting over Thranduil, his own personal stumbling, and his anxieties for his future, melt away. He hones in, instead, on the new happiness that’s come into his life, the stirring in his heart regardless of the violent clenching that often follows. He may not be able to have his love returned, but he still has _that love_ , and he’s grateful for it. He sings whatever words come to mind, and they paint a picture of the sort of tale minstrels always return to, like the love ballads of old.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been playing when a knock sounds on his door, but he stops instantly, a blush coming to his cheeks. He rarely plays for audiences and had assumed most of the other occupants of his wing—few that they are—would already be asleep. Glorfindel, at least, will certainly need it. Lindir calls, “Yes?”

Elrond is the one to enter, closing the door behind himself and automatically walking towards the bed, where Lindir’s sprawled out with his harp in his lap. He quickly straightens to sit properly, though Elrond says, “I apologize, my lord; I did not mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see if you had need of anything before I retire.”

Lindir has a great many wants but can’t conscionably phrase any as needs, so he only says, “No, thank you.” Elrond nods his head, and Lindir wishes he had something more to say.

Fortunately, Elrond lingers on his own, noting, “That is a lovely harp.”

“Thank you,” Lindir returns. “It was a present from the lady Galadriel.”

“A stunning gift from a stunning lady,” Elrond concludes, which draws Lindir’s attention and makes him wonder if Elrond’s met her before. “And you play it beautifully.”

Lindir bites his bottom lip, cheeks heating even brighter. He mumbles, “Thank you.” He’d thought he was keeping his voice in check, but perhaps he played a little bit too loudly. It’s something of a comfort that Elrond looks sincere. He remains standing at Lindir’s bedside a moment more, then turns as though to leave, and Lindir hurriedly adds, “Elrond, I... I apologize again for my conduct the other night.”

Elrond turns back and answers calmly, “It was no trouble. You were intoxicated; I understand.”

“No, I did not... that is, I... I believe I meant all that I said.” It was no different this morning and isn’t any different now.

Elrond still observes him for a moment, clearly considering, and then takes that extra step forward to take a seat on the bed. Lindir places his harp on the bedside table and shifts to sit next to Elrond, his legs hanging over the bed and their knees very close to touching. He wonders at first if he’s shuffled _too_ close, but Elrond doesn’t send him away. Elrond glances down at their laps, then back to Lindir’s face, and dons a soothing tone. “As I have said before, you are young, my prince, and we have only just met. I do not think you should yet trouble yourself with... such feelings.” He phrases it delicately, carefully. It isn’t discouragement but a simple statement.

Lindir still has such feelings, and he now knows how obvious they must’ve been. He wants to profess how strong a bond he already feels, but he doesn’t want it to be interpreted as foolishness or to scare Elrond away. It’s true that this is very new, and so he concedes that point with his silence. 

Then Elrond’s hand moves across their laps to land on Lindir’s knee, resting lightly over the elaborate fabric of his dress robes. Lindir’s breath hitches, his eyes darting to it. Elrond wears a single golden ring with an interwoven, vertical design. He says, “I hope you understand that I cannot, and would not wish to, promise anything of my own feelings on such an intimate level. These are not things I would intertwine with duty.” Lindir nods, disappointed in spite of himself but fully understanding, only for Elrond to continue, “However, physical actions are another matter. I am quite willing to service you in any way you should like.”

That stuns Lindir. He’s sure his face is utterly red, his surprise both delightful and confusing.

He _wants_ that physical element, but despite his usual pragmatism, he’s not sure he can detangle the romantic from the sexual the way Elrond seems to. In this case, Lindir finds he doesn’t have much of a choice. He can’t reject this opportunity.

It’s a difficult thing to negotiate aloud for Lindir, however easy it seems to come to Elrond. Before he can stop himself, Lindir’s asked, “Did you do so in the Woodland Realm?”

“No,” Elrond answers, a slight smile on his lips. “Though King Thranduil offered me such a job many times.”

Given the way Thranduil spoke of Elrond during his visit, Lindir’s surprised. But he’s also privately pleased, however irrationally, that Elrond is selective with this and evidently deems Lindir worthy. Trying to hide his own smile, he says, “I would not wish you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable.”

“Of course. It is a service like any other, one that both parties must consent to, and I, for my part, would be honoured to provide such release for you.”

 _Honoured_. Lindir could swoon. He wants to ask _why_ , but instead admits, “I have not... that is, I have engaged in... carnal acts... with other elves, but I have not had a... well, a servant quite like this...”

To his great relief, Elrond doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “I am reasonably experienced, and I believe I will be an adequate guide. Communication is the most important factor. If you yourself wish, at any point, to end our contract, or simply to halt activities for any given period, you must tell me. Your preferences will likely be discovered along the way; you need only tell me what you would like, and I will do my best to grant your wish.”

That all sounds perfect to Lindir. He’d expected Elrond to be more experienced, but hearing it from Elrond’s lips and the phrasing of a _guide_ excites him more than he should. He’s always enjoyed learning. His only trouble is that he wishes he didn’t have to ask—he wants Elrond to _want_ him and _take_ him accordingly.

But he has no right to those feelings, and he’s accepted that. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and decides he’ll have to take what he can and try to enjoy it—he doesn’t have the will to let Elrond walk out of here untouched. 

He licks his lips and quietly asks, “Will you... will you kiss me?”

Elrond smiles, gently and _beautiful_ , radiant in the low candlelight. He lifts his hand from Lindir’s knee to curl under Lindir’s chin, index finger and thumb taking hold of him to tilt his head aside. Elrond drifts closer, Lindir’s eyes fluttering closed, and then Elrond is _on_ him. The kiss is wonderful. It’s chaste, slow, but _warm_ , Elrond’s lips soft and a little wet against Lindir’s own. Lindir opens his mouth, intending only to gasp, but then he licks desperately at the seam of Elrond’s lips, and Elrond parts his to prod his tongue against Lindir’s.

Lindir mewls happily, and the next thing he knows, Elrond’s tongue is fully in his mouth. It presses forward, filling him, gently guiding his own out of the way so that Elrond has free run to probe about. _It’s only a service,_ Lindir tries to remind himself, tries to will himself to enjoy it in that capacity, but even so, it feels _brilliant_ ; just what he wanted. Elrond is very skilled. The kiss carries on, their mouths closing only to open again, and Lindir lifts a hand, but he can’t make it the rest of the way, only trembles and hesitates and begs Elrond’s mouth for _more_.

When they finally part, Elrond doesn’t go far. His grip remains on Lindir’s chin, and he asks, “Yes, my prince?”

How he knows that Lindir has a question, Lindir has no idea, but it doesn’t matter—Lindir breathily begs, “May I touch you?”

Elrond lets out a quiet, gleaming chuckle and says, “You may.”

So Lindir does. He presses the palm of his hand to Elrond’s cheek, exhales heavily over the soft brush of skin, and runs his fingers back into Elrond’s hair. With his free hand, Elrond clasps Lindir’s, holding it there while he returns for another kiss. Lindir’s delighted.

Touching Elrond feels so _right_ , more so than touching any other, and Lindir revels in it. He turns his body to face Elrond properly, Elrond rising to meet him, so that their chests clash, Elrond’s hand sliding around the back of Lindir’s head to fist in his hair and hold him steady. Lindir groans at it, his body bucking forward. It started so quickly, but he’s on _fire_ already, burning for _more_ ; he wants to jump right out of his clothes and into Elrond’s. He meets every kiss with another, more fervent one, so thankful when Elrond doesn’t shy away but returns it equally. Elrond feels _divine_.

Lindir is hard shamefully fast. He rolls his body against Elrond’s wherever he can, his fingers all over Elrond’s hair, neck, and shoulders, not yet daring to go lower, though he wants to map every part of Elrond’s body with fingers and teeth and tongue. He thinks he was made to be in these arms. Elrond’s mouth tastes sweeter than any wine, and Lindir drinks far beyond his fill.

When Elrond’s mouth leaves him, Lindir can hardly stand it—he whines and tugs at Elrond’s robes, but Elrond still shifts off the bed. Before Lindir can protest, Elrond’s sunk to the floor, where he sits between Lindir’s legs, drawn right up to the frame. Lindir looks down at the most handsome being he’s ever seen, and he betrays himself to murmur, “I have never been so enamoured with anyone in my life.”

Elrond smiles, his hands falling to the bottom of Lindir’s robes. He starts to gather them up in the middle, parting them around Lindir’s legs, bunching them over Lindir’s thighs—Lindir wears nothing underneath and squirms already under the touch, hips rolling forward. Elrond says, “You are sweet, my lord.” Then the robes are fully parted, Lindir completely _exposed_ , legs spread. “And I will treat you as such.”

Lindir doesn’t know what he expected, but somehow it wasn’t Elrond dipping forward, dragging a hot tongue along his cock, right from his base up to his tip. Lindir cries out, hips trying to buck into Elrond’s mouth, but Elrond’s hands quickly catch his thighs and hold them still—Lindir trembles in their touch, moaning hard. The sight of Elrond alone, kneeling at Lindir’s feet with his lips spread wide and his long tongue buried in Lindir’s skin, is enough to make him twitch eagerly, but it’s the _feel_ of it that really gets to him, the spongy, wet softness as Elrond laps away at him, licking up and down his shaft, only to press in again beneath it. Elrond nuzzles into his tight balls, pauses to inhale, lashes lowered, and runs his open mouth back up to the veiled head, where his tongue pokes out to circle Lindir’s foreskin. Lindir shoots one hand to his own mouth, trying to cover his wanton noises, the other ducking to Elrond’s hair. Elrond allows it, lets Lindir make a light fist to hold on, but Lindir’s careful not to guide him. Lindir doesn’t know what to do, can barely control himself. Elrond takes charge. 

Elrond opens his mouth wide and descends over Lindir’s shaft. Lindir screams into his palm, the sensations making him giddy—the already tight squeeze, the warmth, the slickness, the wriggle of Elrond’s tongue along his underside. Elrond takes him, to Lindir’s amazement, all the way to the base, swallowing him up. His entire cock’s sheathed in Elrond’s mouth. Then Elrond _sucks_ , and Lindir’s never felt anything better in his life.

Elrond begins to slip off Lindir, sucking the entire time, twisting his head slightly, only to pause at the tip and slide forward again, humming thoughtfully around it, eyes half open. Lindir’s want to close, but he forces them to remain on Elrond’s face—he wants to memorize every moment of this. He watches Elrond set a swift pace, bobbing up and down on him with expert skill. He writhes in Elrond’s grasp, desperate to plunge forward, but Elrond holds him still and he _tries_ to be good, he wants to—he wants this to last and wants to get this again and again. Elrond slides smoothly into place each time, suckling Lindir magnificently.

It’s over far, far too soon. But Lindir’s overwhelmed, and despite his best efforts to restrain himself, he explodes with a sudden, feral cry, body doubling forward as his fingers tighten in Elrond’s hair, holding Elrond onto his cock—he doesn’t mean to, be he can’t control himself, can’t think—his vision washes over and he feels almost numb, over stimulated to the point that it’s burned out all his senses, and everything is just _perfect_. He feels so, so _good_ all over. He spills himself all down Elrond’s throat, wracked with tremours to the last.

He thinks he’s screamed himself hoarse and can only hope his hand muffled the bulk of it. As soon as he regains enough of himself, he hurriedly releases Elrond’s hair, muttering, “Sorry, sorry—” And then he sways, barely able to stay up. He’s panting and heavy, satiated. Elrond slides amicably off his flagging cock, leaving it slick with spit.

Looking not at all put out, Elrond tidily draws Lindir’s robes back together and rises again to his feet. Then he settles onto the mattress next to Lindir, only to reach behind Lindir’s back and pluck loose the ribbon of his corseted ties. Lindir doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tackle Elrond and drag him down to the bed, to lie there and _stay_.

Elrond stands again, unhindered. He murmurs pleasantly, “Good night, my lord,” and slowly leans down to peck Lindir’s cheek. It’s a lovely, lingering thing. When he withdraws, he gives Lindir a warm smile and bows his exit.

Then he turns and strolls towards the door, gone while Lindir’s still a complete wreck. Lindir’s horribly, inexhaustibly in love. He knows how foolish it sounds and still believes it. He wonders vaguely how he’ll survive this. 

Then he walks about the room, blowing out candles, slinks out of his robes and slips under the covers, and replays every moment of their time together in his mind, eager for tomorrow and _more_.


	3. Stall

Each passing day brings new delights, but the pattern is similar. Lindir’s body still wakes early, but he begins to lounge about in bed, waiting instead for Elrond to rouse him, often with breakfast on a tray to set across his lap or the table. There’s only one day when he’s pulled away for duty before Elrond can brush his hair, and the rest he perches in the middle of his mattress, biting his lip and bristling with anticipation until Elrond settles behind him. They share calm, idle conversations, and one morning Elrond asks after one of Lindir’s songs. So Lindir hums it, and that becomes a part of their routine. Elrond is an excellent listener and sparing but sincere with his compliments. Lindir relishes these mornings. 

Sometimes, though more often in their eager parting, Lindir’s attentions will become too obvious. He never asks first, but Elrond often offers to ease his urges. Lindir always gratefully accepts. Elrond will touch him with warm hands or soft lips, and Lindir will tremble and melt and come too soon, unraveling in Elrond’s arms to be stroked and kissed. But Elrond never stays long after, and once the pleasure’s gone, emptiness always follows.

After other servants bring water for a bath, Elrond helps tie up Lindir’s hair, gathering it into a bun except for a few strands about his face. Always, Lindir wants to ask Elrond to _stay_ , but the courage doesn’t come. Elrond bids Lindir farewell. Lindir’s left to slip into his washing room and shed his own robes.

Today, he slips into his bath only to buckle forward, knees drawing tight to his chest and face falling into his hands. The water’s almost scalding hot around him—he should’ve waited. All he can think of is that his tub is entirely too large for one elf, and he wishes he were _brave_. Most Elven lords seem to be. _Elrond_ seems to be. But Lindir is a coward that hasn’t even the words to offer Elrond pleasure in return. He’s never seen Elrond naked, never taken Elrond in his hands, never brought his faithful assistant to orgasm. Perhaps Elrond wishes it that way. But Lindir can’t know, because he can’t even find the courage to _ask_.

He thinks of Elrond instead, as he does ceaselessly, even after all the days that have past. He spreads the soap from a bottle across his own body, lingering and pretending his hands are Elrond’s. He shuts his eyes and spreads his legs, and he shamefully pictures being taken by the only person he’s ever wanted so very greatly.

He sinks back into the water. He leans his head against the rim, hair an adequate cushion. He touches himself and fantasizes about a world where Elrond is the lord: a mighty, fair ruler, and Lindir his eager servant. He imagines what it would be like to worship Elrond’s body with his fingers and tongue, and he gasps as he bucks shallowly into his own palm, the water lapping noisily about the sides. He spills himself into the water with Elrond’s name on his lips. Then he opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, and he waits until the water cools. 

He feels both numb and wildly alive. It’s a strange dichotomy, tasting love but not quite holding it. When he finally leaves his bath, there’s a multitude of trade negotiation documents for him to go over. They devour an inordinate amount of his day.

When he finally finishes, he opts to go through a stroll in the gardens before Erestor brings him more work. It’s a beautiful day, with the sun out and very few clouds. That marginally lifts his spirits.

It isn’t long before he hears the clash of swords, devoid of any shouts or cries that would indicate true battle. Mere practice, he assumes. He follows the sounds, expecting to find Glorfindel, his closest friend, and he turns out to be right. Passing beyond a white gazebo, he finds Glorfindel at one end of a small clearing, two elves at the other, all three with gleaming swords drawn. It seems to be two on one, the others leaping at Glorfindel with intense expressions of concentration and Glorfindel grinning as he fights to deflect their blades. When Glorfindel’s eyes catch Lindir, he lifts his free hand for a signal, and the other two step away.

At Glorfindel’s smile and a wave of his hand, Lindir wanders closer, dipping his head politely to the two others—Elladan and Elrohir, he realizes. He recognizes them first not from seeing them at Thranduil’s leave, but from their resemblance to their father. It occurs to him that he, perhaps, should’ve sought out and greeted them properly earlier.

Glorfindel does so for him, introducing, “My lord, please meet the latest addition to the guard, Elrohir and Elladan.”

As they’re already likely to know his name, Lindir doesn’t offer it, just tells them, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” the one on the left that Glorfindel indicated as Elrohir tells him.

Elladan then adds with a sweeping gaze of Lindir’s form, “So you are the young lord that has so monopolized our father’s time.” He sheaths his sword at his side as he says it, the others following, while Lindir’s mouth falls open in want of a quick response.

He has nothing, only blushes and gulps, “I am sorry, I did not mean—”

“No, no,” Elrohir laughs, shaking his head to scatter his chestnut hair. “It is Elladan who did not mean it so. We are more than grown, and we see him plenty still.”

“More so than Arwen,” Elladan snorts, crossing his arms. It takes Lindir a moment to place the name, but Elladan fills in for him, “Our sister, my lord.”

“She writes often and visits when she can—the perks of wedding a ranger,” Elrohir says. 

Many rangers visit Imladris frequently, and it makes Lindir wonder which one has become Elrond’s son-in-law. He gets no chance to ask, for Elladan quirks an eyebrow and notes, “In any case, we are happy to surrender our father to you. He is very fond of you.”

Lindir instantly bites the inside of his cheek to stop a foolish smile. The information warms him immensely. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Glorfindel grinning indulgently. With the intention of saving face, Lindir switches the subject to announce, “You both must be very talented to garner personal training with Glorfindel—he is one of Imladris’ best.”

“Thank you,” Elladan answers, looking quite proud.

Elrohir says, almost with a bit of cheek, “As a matter of fact, our father taught us everything we know.”

Lindir looks at him in pure surprise. He means to accept the information with dignity, but instead, his head tilts, and he asks in awe, “Elrond, a warrior?”

“A great warrior. He fought in the Last Alliance of Men and Elves.”

It seems so strange to think: his quiet assistant wielding a sword with deadly force. Elrond’s clearly a talented healer and always very kind, yet his sons are obviously talented with their weapons, and Lindir finds he believes them. After all, Elrond, despite his position, seems to carry an air of strength, of immeasurable skill, of _greatness_. Lindir loses himself for a moment in the thought of it, then remembers where he is and excuses himself with an embarrassed, “I... should let you get back to training.”

They all bow to him, the twins reciting, “my lord,” and Glorfindel, “good day.” Lindir follows the cobblestones on the edge of the clearing out onto another path, and after a few moments, he hears the sounds of their sparring match resuming behind him.

He’s seen, of course, Glorfindel in armour many times, in many different models, and he’s always found the view quite... invigorating. The image of Elrond in such an outfit, perhaps riding a swift horse with the wind in his hair and his cloak behind him, is far too stimulating. Lindir gets so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t watch where he’s going, and so it serves him right for nearly bumping into a stray elf around the corner. After that, he straights and tries to pay more attention, at least until he finds an unoccupied corner to sit for a little while, so he can recount the old songs in his head of such battles and now picture Elrond at the forefront.

Before he’s found a suitable place, he finds Elrond emerging from around a fountain, carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Lindir stops instantly, held in Elrond’s path, and Elrond continues walking up to him. When Lindir glances down at the flowers—momentarily worried that they’re for someone else—Elrond says, “I was just about to change the flowers in your room, my lord.”

“Oh, thank you,” Lindir returns immediately, brightening—in a way, it’s Elrond _giving him flowers_. He’s tempted to deliver them himself, if only for that illusion of Elrond slipping them into Lindir’s hands. Somehow, he manages to restrain himself, and then he blurts, “I have just met with your sons.”

“Oh?” Elrond asks. “They were polite to you, I hope?”

Why they wouldn’t be, Lindir has no idea, but if Elrond’s sons are troublemakers, Lindir has no wish to know of it—he wants to keep Elrond and his entire family on a pedestal. So Lindir only answers, “Yes, they were. They have been accepted in the guard, I hear, and were sparring with Glorfindel.”

“Yes, I believe he has taken quite a shine to them. I am both proud and grateful of their progress.”

Lindir nods, opens his mouth, closes it again, and plays with the phrasing before he finally betrays his thoughts. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, he slowly relays, “They... they did mention that you were the one to teach them. ...You were a warrior?”

With a thin, lenient smile, Elrond admits, “Yes, long ago.”

Then something occurs to Lindir, and he adds, “Forgive me, but I cannot help wondering what else you have done.”

“That might be a while.”

Lindir tilts his head curiously and knows that it’s something he wants to spend time on. Everything with Elrond is. Glancing behind his shoulder to check the path he means to follow, he asks, “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course.”

Biting his lip and smiling delightedly at that answer, Lindir leads them back along the cobblestones, behind the fountain and between a few bushes, down along a narrow walkway, and into a tiny, enclosed area between towering flower bushes and a few wiry trees. There’s one stone bench in the little private garden that Lindir sits on the edge of, pleased when Elrond takes the other side. He places the bouquet gently down amidst the grass behind them. Lindir folds his hands in his lap, asking hopefully, “Will you tell me?”

Elrond nods and recounts, “I have done many things. I have been a scholar, a healer, a teacher, a soldier, a partner and a father. For many years, I fought alongside the free peoples of Middle Earth to retain that freedom. When the threat had passed, I was quite content to settle for a quieter life. I had taken interest in writings before, and I returned to that for some time, although there were many ills left from the war, and I spent much time learning the art of healing, both physically and mentally. When the mother of my children and I grew apart and she chose to sail west, I left her people in Lothlórien to approach the Woodland Realm. There I spent some time teaching the young, but I have found that above all, I prefer taking care of others, and for that I settled into the role of an attendant. To do so to a prince was of Thranduil’s choosing, but I must say I find serving you more fulfilling; I am able to utilize a number of my interests.”

Taking it all in, Lindir mumbles, “I am honoured.” More so. Elrond’s smile broadens. It’s so intensely _warm_ when it does that. 

“My dear Lindir,” Elrond quietly replies, replacing the usual title with pure affection, “you are far too devoted to me.”

Lindir can’t deny it. He has the urge to apologize but knows that Elrond will only tell him not to do that so much. So he nervously asks, “Does that make you uncomfortable?” If it did, he would retreat in a heartbeat.

But Elrond answers, “No. In truth, I find it rather endearing. ...But more importantly, I want what is best for you.”

Lindir can think of no one better. He falls silent for a moment, the two of them remaining there with the far-off sound of a minstrel muffled through the leaves, the sky still bright and the air sweet. Elrond is patient, and Lindir tries to summon more of his courage. Then, when he can, he sucks in a deep breath. He rises, gesturing for Elrond not to follow, and instead sinks down to his knees the way Elrond first did for him. Perched at the foot of Elrond’s brown robes, Lindir asks, “Elrond, may I... may I please _you_?” He means it all-encompassing, but they have boundaries for that, and he clarifies, in physicality rather than requesting Elrond’s feelings, “May I taste you, perhaps?” His voice is already quivering; it feels a shameful thing to say.

Elrond only sighs, “That would hardly be appropriate, my prince.”

“But you are a great warrior,” Lindir counters, cheeks red. “Were it not for you, I, and all my people, might not have freedom at all. You deserve to be _worshipped_.” Elrond’s brows both lift at the wording, and Lindir mumbles hopefully, “I may be little good at it yet, but I would be very interested to learn...”

“And here I was under the impression that you enjoyed my quiet nature.”

“I do! I just... I also enjoy the thought of you besting Glorfindel.” While Lindir bites his tongue over the foolishness of such a statement, Elrond laughs. It eases Lindir’s tension exponentially.

Grinning, Elrond announces, “I shall have to arrange to spar with him then sometime, when you are next free to watch.”

Even if it’s only a joke, Lindir’s breath hitches, his head spinning with the thought. He wants that very much, his only hesitation being to witness it in public—he’s sure it would arouse him beyond salvation. The idea of Elrond wielding a sword and dancing gracefully through each step, possibly shirtless to lighten his body, maybe even glistening in sweat, breathing hard from exertion and flushed with movement, is all too much for Lindir to take. 

Another sigh, and Elrond concedes, “Very well—I have not the strength to deny you when you ask in such earnest.”

His hands come to his own lap, his legs spreading, and Lindir watches in rapt fascination as Elrond parts his own robes, tugging them open at the waist. He wears tan trousers underneath that he reaches into, drawing out a long, thick shaft, veiled at the tip and slightly curved, lightly veined, and not entirely limp. When he’s pulled himself fully free, Elrond’s hand retires to his thigh. Lindir _stares_. It seems oddly out of place—the rest of Elrond is perfectly made up, from the silver circlet around his forehead to the tightly drawn laces of his boots. To think that he would make such an exception for Lindir is mildly intoxicating.

At first, Lindir doesn’t know what to do, but he knows what he wants. His eyes flicker up, unsure whether it’s for permission or advice, but Elrond’s features remain passive, though pleasant. So Lindir leans forward, inhaling deeply, and experimentally sticks out his tongue to swipe over the head. It tastes bland and a little salty, neither good nor bad, but the scent of it makes him _hungry_. He licks it again, then again, then draws his tongue all down the side of the shaft, tracing every ripple, and he can feel it twitch against him, Elrond letting out a small hitch of breath. Lindir takes that to be a good sign and licks back up, then again, working into quick, hard brushes of his tongue. He flattens into it completely, drags his whole mouth along it, kisses it, and nuzzles into it, becoming bolder with each move—his hands rise from his lap to hold the base of it so he can point it. He directs it straight at his mouth and gently peels back the foreskin, tasting the tip over and over. 

Elrond offers no guidance, and Lindir can’t wait; he simply showers the magnificent cock with love. He’s fooled around before, felt other elves, but Elrond is sizeable and Lindir’s never had one in his face like this, nor has he ever wanted one. Elrond’s makes him bizarrely _excited_. He locks his lips around the tip and brings it as far into his mouth as he can, suckling at it. When he tries to go deeper, he winds up choking and pulling off, blushing furiously when Elrond chuckles. But a large hand lands in his hair and strokes back through it, lovingly cradling the back of his head. Elrond murmurs, “Please, do not try to take too much, my lord.”

Without meaning to, Lindir answers, “You have taken _all_ of mine.” Lindir’s felt the exquisite slide of Elrond’s tongue as far back as he could; he’s fucked Elrond’s throat and released himself down it. But when he tries to slip back onto Elrond’s, he finds he still can’t go very far. He whines around it, the muffled hum seeming to make Elrond shiver.

Elrond pets his head again—something Lindir _loves_ —and insists, “Please, my lord. It is a difficult thing at first, and this is... you are already quite satisfactory.”

Lindir smiles around his mouthful, looking up to find Elrond’s eyes more lidded than usual, breathing coming perhaps a bit harder, cheeks maybe a tiny bit pink. It’s subtle, but enough to make Lindir’s heart leap. He gives a hesitant suck, finds it simple enough and does it again, sucking harder, and tries to take a bit more, only gradually. When he’s halfway and doubts he could go any farther, he pulls back, only to slide forward, and begins to bob up and down on it, the way slicked with spit. The action itself makes him harder, and Elrond’s cock is now rigid in his mouth. He moans happily around it, hoping he’ll get to taste Elrond’s seed on his tongue. The movement comes naturally to him. The best part is Elrond’s reactions; he grunts approvingly above Lindir’s head, face flushing darker, eyes fluttering closed, only to open and look determinedly down again, watching Lindir at work.

For a fair while, Lindir does this, slides eagerly up and down Elrond’s hard cock and sucks where he can, trying very hard not to touch himself for fear of coming too soon. His fist shakes on his thigh, Elrond’s fist in his hair. Finally, just when he’s about to give in and knead himself through his robes, Elrond gives a gently tug to Lindir’s hair, and with a distinct whine, Lindir allows himself to be pulled off. The heavy cock slips out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop,’ and he finds himself staring at it while Elrond gives him a light push back.

Lindir obeys, shuffling away. Elrond leans forward. He stalks down to the grass, sitting right before Lindir and still moving, so that Lindir must lean backwards, until he’s lying flat on the earth. Elrond sprawls over him on hands and knees, face parallel with Lindir’s and only a few centimeters apart. A few stray strands of Elrond’s dark hair slide down his shoulders to tickle either side of Lindir’s face. The sun silhouettes him beautifully. Lindir can’t help but wonder if he’s fallen asleep and is now luxuriating in a particularly perfect dream.

Eyeing Lindir’s lips, Elrond huskily asks, “How would my lord like to be pleasured?”

Lindir mewls, half in displeasure and half in desperation. He was supposed to be the one providing pleasure. But he doesn’t want to guide Elrond beyond his bounds and so thinks, then decides, “Will you take me like a soldier would?” 

Elrond smiles and bestows a chaste kiss to Lindir’s mouth. Before Lindir can deepen the kiss, Elrond’s receded. He pats Lindir’s hip, signaling something Lindir doesn’t understand, then scoops an arm beneath Lindir’s waist. Lindir lets out a little gasp as he’s pulled up, then helped around, guided to all fours, Elrond draped over him. In his ear, Elrond muses, “It is most improper, you realize, for a lord to be taken this way?” Lindir nods and looks over his shoulders, his eyes saying that he doesn’t care.

With a few delicate brushes of Elrond’s fingers, all of Lindir’s hair is swept over one shoulder, leaving the other free for Elrond to tug the collar of his robes aside and kiss the crook of his neck. Lindir keens, leaning into it. While Elrond’s mouth plays at Lindir’s throat, his hands gather Lindir’s robes, bunching up the silken fabric and pushing it over his waist. Elrond’s hands seem to hesitate on the tights beneath, but Lindir presses back into them, moaning in anticipation, and Elrond correctly interrupts the signal to continue. They’ve yet to go this far, but Lindir was dearly hoping for it. With Lindir’s tights bunched under his rear, he feels shamefully exposed but so _ready_. Elrond’s hand traces over his bare cheeks, squeezing, and Lindir whines excitedly. 

Lindir has nothing with which to prepare himself, but Elrond must—when his other hand slides between Lindir’s cheeks, it’s surprisingly wet—perhaps he carries some sort of vial for other purposes—massage oil? Medicine? Lindir selfishly wonders if it’s simply _lubrication_ in anticipation of _this_. Elrond rubs down Lindir’s crack to poke at Lindir’s furrowed hole, then purrs against Lindir’s face, “You must tell me, my lord, if I hurt you at all—you know it is not my wish to.”

Lindir nods: of course. He takes in a shuddering breath as Elrond rubs the thick liquid over his hole and winds up begging, breathless already, “Elrond, _please_ , ohh—” He’s kissed behind his ear, and his hips buck back into Elrond’s hand—the blunt tip of one finger breaches him, strange but not unwelcome, though he remembers the last time he took such prodding, he found it quite uncomfortable. The difference is that now he _yearns_ for it, and he pleads on, “Yes, _ahh_ —I want this, want this very much... oh! P-please do not stop...” Elrond nuzzles reassuringly into him as though to promise not to, and Lindir presses back. Elrond’s finger is sliding gently inside, shifting around and stroking Lindir’s walls, and each little stroke nearly makes him jump, makes him keen and arch. The setting of the lovely gardens melts away, the morning memory of other warriors long in the distance; Lindir’s world narrows down to _Elrond_ and their coupling.

After much petting of Lindir’s insides, Elrond adds a second finger, just as seamless, and softly scissors Lindir open, while Lindir’s cock remains hard and trapped in the front of his tights, his hands too busy supporting himself to go to touch it. By the time Elrond’s inserted a third finger, his spare arm has reached beneath Lindir’s chest to steady him. Elrond’s fingers are very long and quite skilled, and by the fourth, Lindir is moaning helplessly and grinding back into them, feeling already like he’s gaping open and wanting _more_ —he begs again, “Elrond, oh, please, I am ready—ahhh— _take me_...” 

“I will, my lord,” Elrond promises, kissing the tip of Lindir’s ear and withdrawing his fingers. “I have pledged my service to you, and I would not leave such a beautiful creature aching so...” Lindir glows at the compliment and turns his face to look at Elrond, only to find a short smile and the brush of a kiss against his cheek. Then Elrond shifts positions, and Lindir can feel the much larger head of Elrond’s cock nudging at his hole. 

He spreads his legs a little wider, heart racing, as Elrond presses slowly forward. Elrond’s hands hold Lindir’s waist, and Lindir arches his body, tilts his ass up and back, grits his teeth and takes the burning slide, until the tip pops in and he _gasps_ Elrond groaning above him. Elrond feels inordinately large, and Lindir clenches eagerly around it, loving Elrond’s quick hiss of clear pleasure, but Lindir tries to relax again after so he can take more. Elrond stops before Lindir’s full, rocks slightly, and begins to push in and out, while Lindir fights not to thrust back and take Elrond all at once. He doesn’t want to scream too loudly; their privacy isn’t absolute, and more so, he doesn’t want to defy Elrond’s intent too much.

He’s whimpering helplessly by the time it’s fully in, but it gets there, grinding into place, Lindir completely impaled and trembling on it, walls flexing almost violently around the thick intrusion. He can’t seem to catch his breath. Elrond takes a moment, then kisses Lindir’s neck and murmurs with just the hint of a moan, “You are very tight, my lord.”

Lindir tries to answer, “Th-tha... thank y...” but instead breaks off in a languid cry and hangs his head, rocking his hips back to make Elrond move. 

Elrond listens, drawing out and pushing back, not hard but far enough that Lindir grunts, hair swinging out and back. The next thrust is much the same: powerful but subdued, and the third hits something inside him that wracks out a loud cry of sheer _pleasure_. Elrond hits it again, then again, and Lindir’s tossed forward with it, giddily taking each thrust he’s given. The rhythm becomes somehow quick and even, a steady burst of ecstasy up Lindir’s spine that leaves him far too vocal each time, wracked with tremors and dizzy from it. He thinks it can’t get any better, but then Elrond’s tongue traces the length of his ear, and Elrond purrs at the tip, “Are you sure you wish to be taken by a warrior, my lord?”

Lindir, at first, doesn’t understand, just nods his head anyway and gasps, “Please,” because he wants _anything_ Elrond will give him. Elrond then nips at him, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of his point, and the next thrust is so hard that Lindir chokes and nearly topples over. The next comes rapid-fire, just as hard. The pace quickens, and suddenly Lindir’s being fucked at a relentless rhythm with brutal strength, too fast for him to even cry with each one—he simply becomes one long litany of noise. Elrond kisses, licks, and now _bites_ his neck, not hard there but enough to be _felt_ , and Lindir has never felt so _consumed_ ; it’s as though Elrond’s taken complete command of him. He _adores it_. He’s so, so hard himself, sure he’s leaking against his robes and whines for it, tears prickling the corner of his eyes from the overwhelming sensation, but he doesn’t dare touch himself, doesn’t want to—he wants this to last _forever_. He had no idea his gentle attendant had so much _power_.

Elrond’s strength is staggering. His skill is merciless; each thrust is the perfect angle to over stimulate, and his entire body works in tandem, hips jerking forward and arms tightly clasping Lindir’s body, mouth ever at work. Lindir couldn’t escape if he wanted to. He couldn’t even think of it. His skin’s burning, body bristling with heat. The stench of it fills him quickly, the slapping sounds almost drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears and his own pleas. He’s helpless and drowning in delight. Elrond seems to have no expiration—he never so much as slows, and Lindir wonders if he really could do this endlessly—but Lindir can’t, he’s _weak_ and working himself close to passing out, and finally he lets his tears go and begs, “Elrond, please, please, _oh_ , let me—y-yes! Oh, right there, please, ahhh—”

One of Elrond’s arms tightens around his waist, the other slinking down beneath Lindir’s bundled robes. Elrond’s long fingers close around the bulge of his cock, straining through his tights, and Elrond _squeezes_ , then starts kneading Lindir to the beat of their fucking. Lindir’s trembling doubles, and barely a few thrusts later, he _shrieks_ , his balls tightening and his stomach clenching, cock bursting in its confines—his vision blurs and his mind seems to leave him. Elrond simply continues milking him and sliding in.

Then, before Lindir’s fully finished, Elrond grunts softly and buries his face in Lindir’s shoulder, and Lindir can feel a rush of a hot liquid filling him up. Elrond pounds that out too, then slows, stills, and finally, lets go of Lindir’s body.

Lindir collapses instantly. Elrond’s cock slides free of his ass, and he hits the earth on his front, panting for air and absurdly satiated. His rear feels sore, hole far too wide and leaking, the pool welling up in his tights, but he’s never felt so satisfied. Somewhere above him, Elrond’s deep voice murmurs, “I hope I have not over-exerted you, my lord.” 

Lindir chuckles and smiles, unable to form words. Elrond sits next to him and seems also to need time to come down. Lindir uses it to look at Elrond. Catching this, Elrond drops a hand to idly stroke Lindir’s shoulder, playing back through his hair again.

After several minutes of this, Elrond gently guides Lindir to sit, though Lindir does so on his knees so as not to put any pressure directly on his ass. Elrond reaches around him to pull his tights back up, murmuring, “I apologize for the mess I have made.” Lindir still can’t seem to say how much he doesn’t mind—how much he’s happy for it. Elrond tucks himself back into his trousers and straightens his robes, then draws Lindir’s neatly back into place and finger-combs Lindir’s hair over both his shoulders. Lindir sits quietly and radiates adoration.

Only a few seconds after Elrond has finished his preening, footsteps approach over the cobblestones, and Lindir looks up to find Glorfindel entering their private grove. He looks a tad rushed but stops as soon as he sees Lindir, then spots Elrond. Lindir’s cheeks flare red—he’s sure what they’ve done is all too obvious; the air is thick with the smell of sex and both of them are breathing too hard, Lindir sweating beneath his robes. 

But Glorfindel merely arches an eyebrow and asks, “Are you well, my lord? I heard noises that I thought may have been distress—”

“I am quite well,” Lindir answers, unable to quite meet Glorfindel’s eyes.

From his peripherals, he sees Glorfindel stiffly nod and say, “Then I apologize for my interruption,” and he makes his leave before Lindir can say another word. 

Ripe with embarrassment, Lindir chances a look at Elrond, who merely looks thoughtfully after Glorfindel. Then he reaches below the bench to take the bouquet he’d originally picked. Gathering it up again, he returns his gaze to Lindir, expression softening. 

If Lindir had his way, they’d stay here like this until nightfall, then retreat to the same bed.

But he knows that isn’t reality. Elrond bends forward, fingers slipping beneath Lindir’s chin, and he presses a kiss to Lindir’s forehead. Pulling back, he murmurs, “Good day, my prince.” While Lindir tries to mumble some semblance of response, Elrond rises and follows out the way they came, off to attend to his duties, like Lindir should probably do.

Instead, Lindir lies back along the grass, torn between complete elation and an aching sense of loss.


	4. Peak

He thinks of it at breakfast and manages to steal Erestor away after lunch, then finds himself still unable to speak his mind. Erestor looks at him curiously but allows Lindir the fumbling silence. It’s been some time since Thranduil’s party changed everything, and since then, there’s been no change at all. Content with the way things are, Erestor bows his leave, and Lindir spends the afternoon distracting himself with work, overseeing all the minutia of his home. Things are smooth and seamless.

Then dinner comes, and Erestor asks him if he still wishes to ask what he’d meant to earlier, and Lindir sighs and doesn’t answer. After dinner, he draws Glorfindel aside instead—perhaps a warrior would understand better. They’re closer, more casual: perhaps that will make his nonsense easier to admit. He knows his question will get him nowhere.

He still walks with Glorfindel to a white gazebo, lonesome and quiet. He stays tight at Glorfindel’s side with his arms clasped behind his back and asks quietly, “Do you think... can someone low-born be elevated to the status of a lord? If they are worthy, and there is a place for it?”

Glorfindel’s steps hesitate, but he takes a few more before he halts altogether, Lindir following. Glorfindel doesn’t look nearly so shocked as Lindir’s expected, and instead states, “You wish to promote your servant to lordship.”

Cheeks flushing over how ridiculous it sounds, Lindir admits, “I wish to know if it can be done, yes.” He’s fairly certain it cannot, but there are some ancient laws, long-forgotten, that can still be evoked when necessary, and history’s full of exceptions. He expects the sadness that crosses Glorfindel’s features, and he steels himself for rejection. 

Shaking his head lightly to dislodge his golden hair, Glorfindel glances aside and mutters, “I wish you were not entranced so, but—”

“I love him,” Lindir blurts. He feels foolish but stubborn, and rolls on before Glorfindel can waste breath trying to dissuade him, “I do, I have known him for some time now and found him to be of the highest caliber, particularly well-fitting with me, and I think I to him. He is a most respectable—”

“Lindir,” Glorfindel snorts, and the blunt name instantly closes his mouth. Glorfindel lifts his brows with a knowing grin despite the difficulty of the situation. “You misunderstand me. We are not Thranduil and Legolas, and this is not the Woodland Realm. I was going to say that Elrond cannot be made a lord, but I believe that he is a fine elf, and if he loves you back, so be it. You are free to be with whomever you should choose, regardless of status.”

In response, Lindir is silent for a moment. He’s never been so grateful for Glorfindel’s friendship; the quality of his kindness, of his fairness, is something Lindir more than appreciates. He wishes he hadn’t interrupted.

He also doesn’t think Elrond _does_ love him back, and that’s another matter. But at least the way is clear for his own feelings. He has no need of foreign lords’ approval, so long as his own people will understand. Glorfindel is as good a representative of Lindir’s subjects as any. When Lindir says nothing more, Glorfindel asks, almost cheeky, “Was that all you wished to know, my lord?”

Lindir only nods, and Glorfindel offers him a pat on the back before retreating away, perhaps to spar more with the two elves Lindir would make princes; Glorfindel seems to have grown quite fond of them. All three of their family members seem to be flourishing in Imladris.

And Lindir would do nothing to jeopardize that, but he knows that, sooner or later, things will have to change. Every night he sleeps alone, and every night it hurts. He retreats to his quarters early, wondering along the way if he should stop by Elrond’s instead. 

It works out that he doesn’t have to. He’s no sooner shut the door to his quarters when Elrond emerges from the adjacent bathing room, carrying towels he must’ve just changed. He nods his head politely to Lindir and greets, “My prince,” with that fond inflection he always adds that makes Lindir’s breath quicken. Lindir doesn’t move away from the door, and that forces Elrond to stop; Lindir’s blocking the exit.

Elrond simply asks, “Do you wish for something?”

Yes. But Lindir doesn’t know how to say it. He’s grateful when Elrond presumes to turn and place the stack of folded towels down on the nearest counter, returning to stand before Lindir and wait patiently. Lindir struggles with the courage to change what they have, and finally he tries, “Would... would you wish for anything? If that is all right to ask, that is, I know I have no right to...” He trails lamely off. Knowing Elrond, he’ll figure it out.

Donning a soft smile, Elrond answers, “You have given me everything I could wish for. ...But I think you mean this in a different way. You need not trouble yourself so; I am quite content pleasing you.”

Lindir’s nose wrinkles. He feels helpless and it probably shows, but he can’t force Elrond to request anything. So he just stands awkwardly in place, before remembering to step aside, blushing and murmuring, “I am sorry—forgive me.”

He fully expects Elrond to say there’s nothing to forgive—he’s heard that a number of times. Instead, Elrond releases a gentle sigh, then turns away from the door, walking over to Lindir’s bed.

He steps free of his boots and climbs onto the mattress with his usual elegance, turns at the pillows, and lounges gracefully back against the headboard. Then he extends one arm, palm outstretched. Lindir, breath caught, hurries over. He sheds his shoes and places his hand in Elrond’s, infinitely pleased when Elrond tugs him up onto the bed and guides him closer. Lindir’s brought to straddle Elrond’s lap, sitting neatly down on Elrond’s thighs, his own spread wide and his hands falling to Elrond’s shoulders. He can’t contain his smile.

“I should like to look at you, I think,” Elrond muses, while his hands trace idly along Lindir’s sides. “There have been times when I have not had the chance to observe your handsome face, either from lack of light, different positions, or ill-fitting settings. These I have enjoyed as well, but if you ask me what I should like of you, I think this will do nicely.” Lindir’s sure he’s _glowing._

He wants to kiss Elrond, but he stops after he’s leaned down, hesitating, so grateful when Elrond takes the lead. Elrond closes the rest of the distance and opens his mouth, inviting Lindir to do the same. Elrond’s tongue slips into his, and Lindir mewls happily, kissing back as much as he can, one after the other, until Elrond parts them with a final lick over Lindir’s bottom lip. His eyes lift to Lindir’s forehead, and his hands reach to gently lift the silver circlet that rests there.

Lindir lets his circlet be placed aside on the table by the bed, but he doesn’t remove Elrond’s in turn. He’s hoping to follow Elrond’s lead, and even if he weren’t, he’s grown to like the way the jewelry of Imladris looks above Elrond’s brow. It isn’t so different than Lindir’s own. Elrond’s hands return to Lindir’s face and slip back through his hair, fingers threading in deep, brushing all the way down the length—it’s devoid of any tangles, thanks to Elrond’s own brushing. At the bottom, Elrond makes a loose fist and gives a short tug—Lindir gasps and closes his eyes, experiencing a shameful spark of _lust_. When his eyes flutter open again, only halfway, he finds Elrond wearing an amused smile. Lindir wants him to grab more, tug _harder_ , use his hair like reins to guide him, but Elrond simply rubs his hands back to Lindir’s cheeks and pulls him forward for another kiss. 

While their mouths meet and their tongues trace one another, Elrond’s fingers stroke down Lindir’s neck, into the collar of his robes, where the tips slip beneath the fabric. Slowly pushing out, Elrond parts the robes more every second—Lindir can feel the sash at his waist twisting for it, but the robes give way. Elrond manages to brush either sleeve down Lindir’s shoulders, baring the top of his chest, and then those large hands smooth across his freed skin, forcing him to whine into Elrond’s mouth at the sheer heat of it, the _skill_. Elrond strokes him and pets down to his nipples, then rolls them in little circles and pinches at the nubs that form, making Lindir fidget each time. The more Elrond plays with them, the more Lindir squirms, until he’s rutting shallowly in Elrond’s lap and mewling hopelessly into Elrond’s mouth. The next time Elrond pulls back, he runs his eyes down Lindir’s body and sighs, “How lucky I am, to serve such a kind, pretty creature...”

Lindir’s cheeks are burning. He clings weakly to Elrond’s shoulders and hangs his head under the scrutiny, embarrassed but _hot_. He can’t seem to stop his hips from stuttering forward. Elrond drops both hands down to them, then dips between to find the part in Lindir’s robes and spreads it wider, hands pushing it aside as they run up the insides of Lindir’s bare legs. There’s no part of Lindir’s body that Elrond hasn’t touched by now, and it must be clear that Lindir _wants that_ again, because Elrond spares no reservations. He traces Lindir’s inner thighs and arches an eyebrow at what he finds: nothing. Lindir closes his eyes so he won’t have to face the shame. He’s occasionally forgone under-layers beneath his robes, but he’s begun to do it steadily of late; he wants to be bare and ready should Elrond offer to take him. Elrond murmurs, “Look at me, dear Lindir.”

Lindir obeys, like he always does, eyes flickering open. There’s no judgment in Elrond’s eyes. He smiles and kisses the corner of Lindir’s lips, then reaches sideways for the table, where a small bottle of oil rests. 

“You should take me one of these days,” Elrond muses, whilst pouring a little puddle of oil into his hand. The hand disappears between Lindir’s legs, and Lindir shivers as Elrond’s wet fingers, slide along his crack. He’s thought of making love to Elrond, once or twice, but more often he pictures it this way. He couldn’t explain why. 

He licks his lips and offers hesitantly, “If you wish to, I...” He trails off, then gives up on the thought completely when Elrond’s blunt fingertip pushes at his hole, gently easing inside. Elrond’s always gentle, but his finger’s still large, and Lindir still gasps. It works its way slowly deeper, Lindir’s grip increasing on Elrond’s robes accordingly.

“It was merely a suggestion,” Elrond drawls. “This is my first preference, and it seems you have catered to that—it should not always be so.”

Lindir means to say _yes it is_ , but instead moans, “I want you inside me.” The finger’s reached to the knuckle, and it’s now squirming about. It retracts only to try again with a second digit. After a gasp that twists into a groan, Lindir manages, “B-but I had meant, on this time, to do as you wished...”

So quietly that Lindir almost misses it, Elrond replies, “You mean that on every time.” And it’s true. Lindir, feeling foolish but bristling with anticipation, falls forward to wrap his arms tight around Elrond’s neck, face burying in the side of Elrond’s. Elrond scissors him for a few moments, adding a third finger and working Lindir wide, then, _finally_ , pulls his hand loose. 

The other loops around Lindir’s waist, patting at Lindir’s behind, and Lindir obediently lifts onto his knees. He withdraws his grip, and pushes the hair that’s tumbled forward back over his shoulders—Elrond said he wanted to look at Lindir. So Lindir will try to oblige. 

He’s guided down, until the spongy tip of Elrond’s cock is pressing at his brim, and though Lindir wants to sit right down on it, he lets Elrond guide him slowly lower. The tip pops inside with a wet squelch of lubrication, and Lindir is fed more of the length bit-by-bit. Elrond’s girth is considerable, but his preparation is always more than sufficient. Lindir pants already with the intrusion but takes it without pain, always wanting more. He sinks down until he’s properly sitting in Elrond’s lap again, except impaled, disheveled and half undressed, with Elrond pristine except for the cock-sized part in his robes. Lindir takes that first moment just to adjust, shuddering and then clenching around Elrond’s shaft, his walls testing it. Elrond allows this and waits, thoughtfully stroking Lindir’s hip with one hand and lifting the other to brush through Lindir’s hair. 

Foolishly, Lindir blurts, “I _love_ having you in me.” Then he clamps his jaw shut and hangs his head, though Elrond only exhales a quiet chuckle. 

“Your body is a fine place to be, my prince. I am sure many would vie for such a position.” 

Lindir shakes his head, equally as sure that isn’t true—beyond, perhaps, those envious of his status—but mumbles, “I only want you.”

“So I have heard.” Elrond pecks Lindir’s cheek affectionately, then tosses his hips up, and Lindir bounces with it, squeaking as he slides half off the shaft, only to slam back down with his own weight. That first impact leaves him trembling, but Elrond quickly guides him into another, and on the third, Lindir forces himself to steady. He arches his back, bites his lip, and rises himself, not quite far enough to let Elrond’s cock completely leave him, then rams back down, hard enough to make himself scream.

He does it again, and again, then hits that perfect spot that puts stars behind his eyes, and he aims for that angle every time, though doesn’t always make it. Sheer force of will drives him, until it becomes habit, pure lust, that drives him on without any thought—he wants to please Elrond, wants to be good for him—Elrond shouldn’t have to do any work—Lindir wants to give him _everything_. Lindir rides Elrond’s cock faithfully, squeezing his ass when he thinks of it and bouncing all the harder. Elrond’s hands drop to his waist, only lightly holding on. Lindir bounces wildly, overcome with it. 

He looks at Elrond the entire time, overjoyed when Elrond leans forward to bring their mouths together again, first in a quick kiss, then a lingering one, his teeth digging into Lindir’s bottom lip and dragging it out, then a long tongue lapping over it and dipping inside—Lindir can’t close his mouth; he’s breathing too hard, but then has to do it through his nose; Elrond fills his mouth up and kisses him with increasing vigor. 

Lindir rides and kisses Elrond for as long as he can, but Elrond eventually diverts from his mouth, nipping at his jaw and kissing along his cheek, licking up to his ear and purring into it, “How lovely you are like this, my Lindir.” Not _my lord_ , not like this; Lindir mewls happily, holding on tight and redoubling his efforts. “I know you wished to please me. You are being very, very good for me...”

That’s all Lindir wants, but the praise warms him like nothing else. Elrond has always been good with his voice: his calming, deep, soothing tone, and his talented hands now running along Lindir’s body, slipping past the robes wherever they want to. Lindir tells himself to hush, to take Elrond’s praise and be quiet, just suck Elrond’s cock with his ass like a good partner, but he breaks instead, whining horribly, “I love you, I am sorry, I do, _ahhh_ , Elrond...” He loves that name. He falls forward again, drapes around Elrond’s shoulders, and moans a little mantra of gasps and, “ _Elrond_...”

He’s tugged back by his hair and kissed again. He’s kissed over and over, and without words to say it, he uses his body to worship Elrond’s. This time, Elrond doesn’t release his mouth until Lindir’s trembling almost violently, his balls tightening—he hasn’t even been touched, and he knows he’ll shamefully be the first to fall, often is, and perhaps Elrond wisely doesn’t touch him for that reason—Elrond allows their mouths to part, and Lindir _shrieks_ Elrond’s name. 

He spills himself entirely in his own robes, can feel it gluing the fabric to his skin and keeps going, keeps riding the hard dick inside him. His muscles are shivering too much for him to clench, but he does as soon as his orgasm’s died down, the mind-erupting pleasure ebbing away, the tension easing out. He comes back down but does nothing for it. He keeps fucking himself and dips to lick Elrond’s lips, chin, down Elrond’s neck, desperate for _contact_ , fingers trembling against Elrond’s robes, until Elrond grunts and his cock bursts inside Lindir. Lindir still milks it out. He savours every last jet of seed that Elrond pours into him. When nothing’s left, he slows to a stop, panting hard, and collapses against Elrond’s chest, still impaled. 

Elrond lovingly pets through his hair and kisses his forehead. Lindir’s shaking, and with a sudden, stinging blink, realizes his eyes are watering—he can feel the edges prickling. He’s going to cry. He lets out a little sob amongst the moans and tries to pull himself together. He wants to hug Elrond tight and not let go. 

A hand still slips below his chin and lifts him. In Elrond’s lap, they’re the same height, perhaps him a little taller, but he’s wilted from satiation and feels smaller for it. Elrond’s warm features flicker into concern, and he asks, “My lord?”

He must know. Of course he knows. Lindir’s made his feelings very clear. He doesn’t particularly want to talk about it, because that won’t solve anything. He shakes his head and sucks in a breath. Elrond taps at his hip, and Lindir obediently lifts up until Elrond’s flagging cock slips free, and then Lindir feels empty and stretched too wide, his hole dribbling stray seed into his robes and Elrond’s lap. He clenches to try and hold onto it, but that just makes him wince. 

He wants to hide. But he can’t let go of Elrond. He feels a little clammy, sweaty, and mumbles, “Can you... can you have someone bring water for a bath?”

“Anything,” Elrond answers simply. Another kiss to Lindir’s forehead, and he detangles himself from the bed. He tucks himself back into his robes and looks as though nothing’s happened, while Lindir curls up on the mattress, feeling wrecked and desperate. Elrond climbs back into his shoes, sweeps towards the doors, and disappears beyond them.

He returns only a short while later, and by then, Lindir has drawn his robes around himself enough to be decent when another servant brings the water. He’s heard tell before of the wondrous hot springs in the Woodland Realm, but he tries not to let his thoughts stray down that road tonight. When the other servant has gone and Lindir slips into his bathing chambers, Elrond remains. He offers his hand, and Lindir takes it. 

He’s drawn closer to the tub. Elrond reaches for the sash at Lindir’s waist and says, “You asked if I should wish for anything. I think I would like to bathe my lover—I fear too often, I have left you too soon after.”

Lindir understands why that always is. He often needs the distance to keep himself from this reaction: pure and simple longing. But he can’t deny Elrond a bath, because it’s something he himself has wanted to share very badly. And then there’s Elrond calling him a _lover_ —perhaps they are that, and perhaps that does mean something to Elrond, just not _enough._ Lindir still nods, and Elrond pulls the sash loose, then easily slips Lindir’s robes over his shoulders again. This time, they drop to the floor. Elrond lets them fall. 

Then Elrond unfastens his own robes. His front consists of buttons and clasps that he undoes one at a time, Lindir’s eyes growing wider at each one. He can’t be sullen with this prospect: he’s seen far too little of Elrond’s body. He forgets to even be embarrassed of his own. He watches as Elrond rids himself of his robes and steps free of his boots and trousers, pushing everything away and back until he stands as bare as Lindir. 

He _does_ have a warrior’s body. He’s on the thin side, but taut, well-muscled, all creamy skin until the dark patch of hair above his cock, large even when flaccid. Lindir eyes everything—the curves of his calves, the jut of his hips, the dusty brown nipples on broad pecs—Lindir knows he’s staring but can’t look away. Elrond allows it for a moment, then turns to the water, announcing, “We had best get in before it grows cold.” He takes the first step and slips inside, the water barely rippling for how smooth his entrance is. He settles back along the tub, long hair tumbling over the back. Lindir continues staring. 

It takes him a long moment to shake himself out of it, and then, cheeks read, he turns and strolls towards the counter, plucking up a ribbon. He ties his hair only in the quickest, messiest of buns—it’s late, and he doesn’t want to sleep with wet hair. Then he returns, acutely aware of his own nakedness, though Elrond’s seen and felt his body many times. 

He climbs into the tub in front of Elrond, in between Elrond’s spread legs, settling back against his chest. His arms encircle Lindir, his chin hooking over Lindir’s shoulder. Neither brought soaps, but Lindir doesn’t imagine that’s the point of this bath. He doesn’t know what is. Perhaps Elrond’s just trying to calm him. If Lindir weren’t so thoroughly exhausted from both the sex and emotional turmoil, he’d be the opposite—excited and aroused. Elrond’s body is just as warm as the water is. 

For that first little while, they’re quiet, just relaxing, Lindir both still saddened and torn at savouring the touch—he wants to turn and curl right into Elrond, but that might make it worse. So he lies there, letting the gentle lap of the water slowly strip away his tension. He tells himself he has nothing to fret about. He’s very privileged. He’s a lord in a lovely place, with a lovely servant, who’s very, very good to him. There’s only one thing in all the world he could want for, and even Elven lords can’t have everything. Elrond doesn’t move, but Lindir can hear and feel his steady breathing.

Then, after a time, his arm wraps around Lindir’s chest, and he sighs next to Lindir’s ear, “What first interested you in music?” 

The question startles Lindir, so out of the blue as it is, and he has to give it real thought before he slowly answers, “I... you know, I am not sure. It has been so long that I cannot remember what began it.”

“You are very good at it, in any case. I have heard my fair share of minstrels, and I believe Imladris is very lucky to hear your songs.”

Blushing, Lindir mumbles, “Thank you,” and slips a little deeper into the tub. On a whim, he looks over his shoulder and asks, “You have done many things—have you learned to play the harp?”

Elrond smiles thinly. “Yes, though certainly not well.”

Lindir can’t help a short laugh. “I cannot imagine you doing poorly at anything.”

“Alas, I fear the skill of my hands was spent on swords and parchment—they are not meant for instruments.”

“I would think a sword far more difficult to learn.”

“Would you wish to?” Elrond asks, tilting his head. Lindir pauses for a second, trying to detangle if that’s an offer. Under normal circumstance, he would have no interest in weapons, but as an excuse to spend more time with Elrond.... Elrond prods, “It is a useful skill. I wish this land peace, of course, but it would ease my heart to know you could defend yourself if need be.”

“Then I suppose I would.”

As Lindir hoped, Elrond offers, “I shall teach you, then. Unless, of course, you would prefer another. I am sure Glorfindel, for instance—”

“You,” Lindir hurriedly says, feeling silly but repeating, “...You, please.” After a moment’s thought, he adds, “And if you should wish to learn more of the harp...”

Elrond laughs once and returns, “I do not think I should burden those around me with it. But if it should please you, I would be willing to try.”

It sounds like a wonderful exchange, at least to Lindir, who always wants an excuse to continue this, no matter how painful. He knew he couldn’t extricate himself anyway. It means too much to him. So he just lies back against Elrond’s chest again, and they share idle conversation, until it’s become so dark beyond the tall windows that they’ll need candles to stay much longer, and the water’s cooled beyond comfort. Even then, Lindir waits until Elrond suggests, “It is late; we should rise.”

Lindir has to do so first, but Elrond quickly follows, merely wrapping a towel around his waist while he returns to dry Lindir properly. Lindir allows the pampering and enjoys the soft touch with which Elrond draws the thick material along his skin, dragging the water clear. Elrond even dabs afterwards at the bundle of Lindir’s hair and pulls the ribbon loose. Lindir then gathers his robes back around himself, not bother to tie the sash but simply holding them closed, and watches while Elrond dries himself. Elrond redresses properly. Then he ushers Lindir back into the bedroom and says, “You should rest, my lord, but I will light the candles if you wish to linger.”

They’re back to _my lord_. Lindir stops walking, somewhere near the bed, abruptly aware that _it’s over_. The excuse has run out, and Elrond will be gone in a minute, and Lindir will be alone again, to spend another night with only his troubles in his too-large bed. The hurt the bath soothed comes seeping back into him, and he has trouble forming the words to dismiss Elrond. It’ll do him no good to pretend any longer, but his throat just isn’t working. 

After a moment of nothing, Elrond steps closer and loops on arm around Lindir’s waist, drawing them so near that when Elrond leans forward, his hair drapes over Lindir’s shoulder. He asks, intimate yet perfectly innocent, “Would you like more?”

Lindir lifts his hand to his mouth. He doesn’t mean to, but he feels like he’s about to wail, his eyes stinging like earlier, and he tries to blink away the impending water. Elrond’s hand falls away, concern immediately washing over him: it’s evident, even in just the starlight. He asks, “What is wrong?”

Lindir opens his mouth, says nothing, chokes and mutters hoarsely, “You know what is wrong.” He feels guilty right after, worrying if he said it too harshly—he didn’t mean to snap. Elrond looks saddened but not offended.

He dips his head, looks aside, waits a moment and returns, sighing, “Lindir, this is not good for you. I am lowborn, and worse still, only half Elven, not to mention _old_. Play is one thing, but commitment... you deserve someone _worthy_ , someone young and of equal station—”

“Oh, I do not _care_ ,” Lindir whines. He feels childish, but he _means_ it, and he manages to break away from Elrond’s magnetism, taking another step towards the bed and plopping down, wilting at the side, he shakes his head and mutters, “I know I am not to ask for your feelings, but I cannot stop my own, and I...” he pauses, shakes his head, and with a shuddering gasp, finally admits what he knows he should’ve done from the start: “I... perhaps we should not... not _touch_ anymore.” At the worry that flickers across Elrond’s face, Lindir hurries to explain, “Please, do not misunderstand—I have treasured every one. ...It is just that I cannot shake this; I love you more with each passing day. And it would not be fair of me to pressure you so. In truth, I doubt distance would help, but it seems I must have it, for holding you in my arms only to let you go is too much to bear, and I...” He rambles off, but he’s said his peace, and nothing’s going to make it better.

For what seems a long while, Elrond is quiet. Lindir swallows back his sobs and wipes at his eyes, drawing shaken breaths until he’s stilled, and then he sits where he is with his head hung. 

Finally, Elrond murmurs, “I have done you a great disservice.”

Lindir’s head snaps up, eyes wide, ready to deny it, but Elrond lifts a hand and shakes his head. “Please, do not tell me otherwise. I knew of your feelings, and yet I took for myself, knowing you would likely not be satiated.” Again, Lindir wants to protest. Elrond asks before he can, “...May I have time to think on this?”

Lindir nods. All the time they have. He would wait many, many years for Elrond, no matter how difficult. He likely will, even if he waits all his life.

Elrond steps closer, only to lean down and press another chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead. Then he makes his leave, and Lindir becomes alone with his turmoil, wondering if he’s ruined everything. Perhaps he should’ve kept his mouth shut and taken what Elrond was willing to give—surely it would be better to have something of Elrond than nothing at all.

It’s too late. Lindir climbs beneath the blankets of his bed, still in the robes he wore for the day, too exhausted to bother changing. He thinks he might cry again but doesn’t. His head is so full of worries that it makes itself quickly numb, so many thoughts clamouring to be heard that none make any sense. He simply lies there and endures the storm, horribly awake. No semblance of sleep bothers to approach him. 

He doesn’t know how long passes like that—many hours, likely, and he imagines he’ll be up all night and make himself sick through the morning. But eventually, a knock comes to his door.

He knows who it must be, and for that, he slips from his bed and pads over through the darkness. He opens one door, and Elrond stands outside, grave face lit with a candle. Lindir steps automatically aside to let him in.

Elrond comes but sets the candle on the nearest table, where it flickers shallowly and lights both of them orange on that side. Elrond says first, soft as a whisper, “I apologize to trouble you at this hour.” 

Lindir mumbles, “I could not sleep.”

“Nor could I when I know you are unhappy.” Then he pauses, uncharacteristic of him—he’s usually so _sure_. He sighs, “It is no use. I am sorry, my Lindir. I had thought it would be better to will myself away, but... I do not think I can do so anymore. I apologize. The limits I first set you I would set on any other, and yet for you, for us, it was more something I wished to impose on you than myself. But it seems you cannot help your feelings any more than I, and though I tried to outwait what might have been a simple crush, it has proven far more.”

Lindir can’t be sure what Elrond’s saying. He doesn’t want to hope. But Elrond’s hand lifts to his cheek, thumbs him gently, and Lindir lifts a hand to clasp it too tight—that _can’t_ be rejection. Elrond smiles, sad but _so_ tender. Lindir can’t seem to breathe a word, so Elrond goes on, “I would like to retain my attendant duties, if I may. The work suits me, and while I am no longer suited for battle or teaching, I would like to have something to do. But... I will also explore a... tentative relationship with you. If you will still have me.”

Before Lindir’s even managed to process the words, he answers, “ _Yes_.” He thinks his eyes might be watering again. He knows, somehow, exactly why it must be tentative—Elrond still thinks Lindir will find someone _better_. That won’t ever happen. He swallows audibly and presses, “Yes, of course!” Then, because it’s come as such a shock, he asks, “Really?”

Elrond lifts a brow and answers, full of fond amusement, “I may have been a fool to deny it as long as I did. I have hardly been able to leave your side since I came here, and I have never enjoyed anyone’s company more. Our time together has been very special to me, and... I admit that I would be... saddened... if any of that were to end.”

Lindir gulps. It’s no use. His eyes are wet. He wants to say something clever, something adoring, but instead he simply lunges forward, wrapping Elrond in a tight, fully inappropriate embrace. He doesn’t care. He’s ridiculously happy when Elrond returns the hug. He’s never been _so happy_.

When they part, Elrond leans in, and they share a short kiss, followed by another, then a third. Then Elrond holds their foreheads together, circlets stripped away for the night, now just bare skin and the warmth of their bodies. 

Lindir murmurs, still hesitant for all of this, “Will you spend the night?”

“In truth, I do not know how I have not already.” 

Lindir laughs. Then he takes both of Elrond’s hands in his and tugs Elrond back towards the bed, where they fall onto it together. They both crawl beneath the covers and face one another, Lindir in his robes and Elrond down to loose trousers and a long nightshirt. They share a few small touches, a few more kisses, nothing heated but simply peaceful, pleasant. It takes a good while for Lindir’s tears to completely fade. He thinks he’ll write a song of this; he wants to capture this feeling, torturous though it is, and savour the rapture time and again. 

He’s never slept so well.


	5. Epilogue

Naturally, the letter gives him some discomfort. He’s never considered himself particularly attention-worthy or politically respectable, but he would like to have _some_ respect from other Elven lords, and it seems he’s quite thoroughly lost that. On the other hand, the scandalized tone of the letter is almost comical, and it’s rather difficult not to be somewhat amused.

He’s grinning by the time he sets it down on his desk. He feels foolish for the sentiment, but the smile’s hard to shake. The candles about the surface are lit, and for a brief moment, he considers burning the shame away, but he ultimately decides to keep the letter. Perhaps someday, when he’s as old as Thranduil is now, Lindir will bring it out again, and Lindir and Legolas will share a good laugh over his father’s selective scruples.

The door opens behind him without any knock, and that tells him who it is—only one resident of Imladris would enter their lord’s chambers unannounced. Sure enough, Elrond steps inside, carrying his own leaflet of parchment and shutting the door swiftly behind him. He sweeps towards the desk with a calm look, but Lindir’s grown to know him well and sees the twinkle in his eyes. 

He sets the parchment down, and it unfolds to reveal the same neat scroll as Lindir’s letter. Eyeing the piece lying under it, Elrond muses, “I see you received your own scolding. I need not have brought mine, then.”

“Thranduil sent a letter to scold you?” Now Lindir’s smile grows, and he can’t contain his mirth. Reprimanding lesser lords is one thing, but he wouldn’t have thought Thranduil would bother penning a letter to a former servant. But then, Lindir’s a far less hands-on overseer than Thranduil, and it stands to reason Thranduil would have enough spare time to fret about such things. 

Elrond’s dimples show to either side of his mouth; he’s clearly struggling to contain his own grin. “I am under the impression he feels slighted.”

Lindir laughs, “Jealous, you mean.”

With a wearied sigh, Elrond insists, “He will get over it. He has plenty of suitors, and if one out of a thousand refuse his advances, I am sure he will be no worse for wear.” Lindir thinks it might be more like one out of several thousand, but he doesn’t say it. He’s still getting over the fact that Elrond could’ve had _King Thranduil_ , and instead came here to lie with Lindir. 

It’s still something of a fuss that Elrond’s been drawn into on Lindir’s account, so Lindir shakes his head. “I apologize. I had not meant to tell him of us.”

“On the contrary, my lord, I confess the fault may be mine. I make an effort to keep in touch with certain elves of Lothlórien, who likely saw fit to spread the gossip.”

“And they could not help but reach out to the king you could have had instead.” Lindir regrets it right after he says it, but Elrond only offers him a smile.

“I assure you, my lord, I have been quite content with you.” At Lindir’s blush, Elrond gestures about to add, “Besides, I have already moved many of my things to these quarters, and I would not wish to move again.” Lindir laughs, and Elrond must take that as a sign that the conversation is settled. He reaches for one of Lindir’s candles and deftly blows it out, taking another as he asks, “Now, would you like anything before we retire for the night? A bath, perhaps?”

Lindir might need it. Only this last part of his evening was spent at his desk—the morning was occupied with Erestor’s long list of architectural maintenance for Lindir to order by priority and resources, and the afternoon was spent on a strenuous training session with Elrond, which went every bit as Lindir might’ve fantasized. Until Elrond left to oversee other duties, anyway, and Lindir was left to be quickly bested by Elladan and Elrohir. He’s sure he worked up quite a sweat, and baths with Elrond are always relaxing in all respects. 

But Lindir decides instead, “No, I think I am ready now. It has been a tiring day, and besides, I fear I would only be made dirtier afterwards.” Elrond arcs an eyebrow in silent understanding and blows out the rest of the candles, hiding Lindir’s embarrassment at his bold hint. 

When Lindir rises from his chair, Elrond takes his hand and guides him towards the bed, the two of them stopping just before it. They’ve been together long enough now that there doesn’t seem much point lying in robes, not when Lindir so delights in the feel of his lover’s body. Lying next to Elrond is... _wonderful_.

And it’s better when there’s nothing between them, so Lindir lifts his hands to the circlet surrounding Elrond’s forehead, nestled in his smooth hair like a crown. He places it behind him on a small nightstand and returns to work on the clasps of Elrond’s robes, unfastening them one by one with forced patience. In return, Elrond strips away Lindir’s diadem and unties his sash, spreading his robes. Lindir brushes all the fabric free of Elrond’s shoulders and plucks at the drawstring of Elrond’s trousers. Before Lindir gets a chance to pull it loose, Elrond ducks down to bring their lips together. They share a short kiss, full of promise, and they’re stepping out of their respective clothes and leaving it all in a pile to be dealt with in the morning. For now, they have only starlight. It’s enough to appreciate how handsome Elrond looks in Lindir’s arms. 

He lifts the covers up before he slips onto the mattress, Elrond following and chasing Lindir’s mouth with his. Another kiss, and then another, and Elrond’s hand slips into Lindir’s hair, the two of them settling down, side by side and turned to face one another. Their bodies fit exquisitely together. Lindir ruts his supple form against Elrond’s hard muscles, one lithe leg dipping between Elrond’s strong thighs. Their shafts, both stirring to life, rub dryly against one another. Lindir tries to make their kisses last, but he still always wants more. They hold entire conversations with no noise but little gasps and hushed, wet smacking. This is a song in itself. In all the nights they’ve spent together, Lindir’s interest has never flagged, only grown. Elrond’s feelings meet his own. Their emotions spark between their skin, and Lindir lets himself drown in that delight of pure, reciprocated love.

They do nothing but kiss and hold onto one another for some time, until Elrond pushes at Lindir’s side and rolls carefully atop him, Lindir obliging to flip onto his back. Elrond absently repositions the blankets atop them with one hand, the other supporting his weight. Then he lies over Lindir again, flat and so blissfully _warm_. He rolls his entire body down into Lindir’s, and Lindir tries to buck up but finds himself trapped and only squirms. He wraps his arms happily around Elrond’s shoulders and lets the kisses linger. 

Elrond is the one to first reach for the bottle of oil they keep nearby. Lindir always thought himself responsible, but Elrond is far more so, especially when they’re together—Lindir often grows light-headed in the distraction that is his darling Elrond. Elrond brings the bottle near, rests it between them on Lindir’s belly, and the glass of it is cold against Lindir’s skin. He pauses a kiss to shudder, and Elrond purrs against his mouth, “Is there anything you wish of me, my lord?” The game is a familiar one, and it makes Lindir smile.

“Take me as you wish?” he asks. There seems little to need for either to ask to please the other anymore; their tastes seem to line up nicely. Elrond offers a kiss to Lindir’s forehead, then returns to his lips, hands slipping away to uncap the bottle and pour out the oil. Lindir’s the one to return to the bottle, stretching towards the table as Elrond rubs the contents between his palms. As soon as he presses his fingers between Lindir’s legs, Lindir spreads them wide.

He draws them up, making the blankets rise, and clings to Elrond’s sides with his knees. Elrond settles between them, fingers playing expertly down Lindir’s rear. Elrond rubs along his crack and against his puckered hole, circling it a few times before popping gradually inside. Lindir gasps, but the bulk of his response is stolen away; he can’t seem to tear his mouth away from Elrond’s. Elrond’s tongue is every bit as talented as his hands. Elrond is a _dream_.

Elrond fingers Lindir with casual grace. First one, then two digits prod at Lindir’s opening, always very gentle—Elrond’s never once caused him pain. It was a bit strange, the first few times, but no longer—Lindir _craves_ this, craves Elrond. He takes up to three of Elrond’s fingers, then makes a lewd keening noise against Elrond’s lips and rolls his body up, pleading with it. His cock nudges against Elrond’s top stomach. Elrond kisses along the side of his mouth to peck his cheek. 

The fingers recede, and a spongy tip follows, lining up to gently push inside. That first pop makes Lindir’s breath hitch. He bites his bottom lip and lets his arms fall to the mattress, lets his body go loose, and he hums to himself while he tries to relax, easing the way. Elrond smiles fondly above him and slips slowly but smoothly inside. Lindir knows when he’s taken the entire length—he’s grown used to this feeling and knows exactly how much Elrond can fill him. Probably as much as possible without being uncomfortable. He’s given that first minute to adjust, and he breathes out hard, then inhales just as deeply, flexing his ass to test the give. _Pleasure_ flickers across Elrond’s face.

Lindir murmurs, “I love this.” Elrond gives a short thrust, and Lindir gasps, adding, “I love _you_.”

Another thrust, and Elrond presses his face into the side of Lindir’s, answering, “I assure you, my dear Lindir, the feeling is entirely mutual.” Lindir mewls happily, reaching up to take hold of Elrond’s shoulders again. He threads his fingers in Elrond’s hair and holds on, while Elrond draws out nearly to the tip, only to slide back in again.

Each thrust Elrond gives is slow, measured. He sets into a steady pace, soft and full of adoration: _making love_. They’ve experienced everything by now—had it hard, had it fast, had it rough, and Lindir enjoys it all, but something about tonight seems best suited to this: the relaxed, remarkable joy of feeling one another in slow succession. Each rock of Elrond’s body grinds all of them together. It flattens Lindir’s cock between them, providing heat and friction, though he thinks he could probably come from sheer devotion alone. He looks into Elrond’s eyes when he can, kisses Elrond’s lips other times, and is absolutely certain that there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

Elrond makes love to him for what feels like an age. Lindir does nothing to speed the process along, just allows himself to be taken for a wondrous ride, slowly gathering more sweat and greater tremours, until he’s desperate but made too docile to push for it. He waits, instead, for his kind lover to deliver it. Even Elrond has his limits, and long into the night, he thrusts forward, burrows in, and stays there, spilling himself a moment later with a hushed cry on his lips. Lindir clings to him and follows soon after. They make each other sticky with their mess, but by now neither has the energy to climb out of bed for cleaning. 

Instead, they stay pressed together, heavy and panting. Elrond eventually lifts up to slip out of Lindir, and he climbs off and pushes lightly at Lindir’s shoulder, until Lindir turns onto his side. Elrond sidles up to his back and tosses an arm over his waist, pulling up the covers and spooning him tight. They’re glued together with gathered sweat, their hair both a mess. 

Into Lindir’s ear, Elrond purrs, “I love you.”

Lindir tries to say it back, but he’s too happy, and he drifts to sleep between words, only to be just as overjoyed in the morning.


End file.
